


The Beginning of Always

by LostWithoutMyBlogger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Depression, Diary/Journal, Drunk Joanna, Drunk John, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Even doctors and soldiers screw things up, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Female John Watson, First Time, Flashbacks, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Mycroft's a Git, Not all Tags Posted Here, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Protective Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Really Joanna Whump, Really really sick, References to Drugs, Sick Joanna Watson, Sick John, Survivor Guilt, Tiggers will be addressed before the chapter, Unintentional Bad Decision Making, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWithoutMyBlogger/pseuds/LostWithoutMyBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say that Joanna Watson is struggling with the death of her best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is an understatement.  As her depression deepens, the usually observant doctor fails to notice that her physical health is out of control as well.  By the time she seeks out the treatment she needs, her hesitation will have long-lasting impacts for her as well as those around her.  When Sherlock Holmes finally returns to London, everything he left behind will have changed more than he thought possible.</p><p>A fusion of an original (though tropey) plot line and an AU-Canon divergence of The Empty Hearse.</p><p> </p><p>I know it's been over a month since I last updated (today is 7/2/14), but I have not abandoned this fic.  I'm writing daily, but it's slow going.  Between teaching summer school, suddenly having to find a new place to live, and then (today) seriously spraining my foot, June has been an adventure.  Hang tight.  A new chapter is coming soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Private Journal of Dr. Joanna H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I am a die-hard Johnlock shipper, and in my mind male John/male Sherlock is the best way to go. However, for some reason, this gender swap plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone. So much so, that for once, the entire plot has been fleshed out, so I shouldn't run into major blocks along the way.
> 
> I am an American (don't hold that against me) who does not have a Brit-picker, but I try my best to research British colloquialisms so that I don't jar my British readers too much. Any errors are strictly mine.
> 
> I would, however, love a Beta and/or a Brit-Picker for story and moral support. Maybe if you like this first chapter, you'll feel inclined to volunteer. 
> 
> Read and comment, please. I love the kudos button, but nothing makes my day more than those who take a few moments to write their thoughts. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and reader love is divine!

* * *

 

 

**“The path to paradise begins in hell.”**

**~ Dante Alighieri**

 

 

**June 24, 2011**

 

_Ten days …_

 

Saw Ella today.  Lestrade forced me to go.  I hadn’t been out of the flat since ~~the~~ your funeral.  Hadn’t been out of bed since then, either, truth told. Somehow the bastard knew that, so now I’m quite the girl about town.

He drove me himself, sat in the waiting room until I was done in session, stood in the lobby while I vomited in the ground floor loo, and then brought me back to Baker Street.   All in all a fabulous outing.

I hate Greg.

Ella …

She made me say it.  I didn’t want to say it.

Just _what_ was that supposed to do?!  Just _how_ was any of that supposed to make me feel better?! It doesn’t change a bloody thing. 

Bloody buggering fuck!  I hate that bitch!

Sod this!  Sod all of this!

Sherlock …

I’m going to be sick.

 

 

**June 30, 2011**

 

_16 days …_

 

I’m sure that it goes without saying, but in case it doesn’t, I’m saying it.

I hate your brother.

I hate Mycroft for betraying you. I hate Mycroft for telling me truth about his involvement with Moriarty only once it was too late to do anything to help you.  I hate that Mycroft made me question myself for so long that I couldn’t see what he had done to you until there was nothing –

He came by the flat today, Greg in tow. Used the good DI as a buffer between us. Rather funny that as it’s clear Greg loathes Mycroft, too, right now.  I’m not naïve enough to think Mycroft’s actually afraid of me, but he’s certainly wary. Maybe the Browning on the side table next to my hand – I no longer see a need to keep it hidden, Greg’s always known I’ve had it, and he’s not going to take it from me – had something to do with the trepidation I saw in Mycroft’s eyes when I could stomach looking at him for long enough.

There were things for me to sign, today. Formalities that had to be attended to. Papers to file with the courts.

Your estate.

Why did you leave me all of this, Sherlock? I don’t want any of it.

The only thing I want is what I had. What _we_ had.

I’ll never have that again.

Why, Sherlock?!

I hate what you did!  I hate that you lost faith in yourself.  I hate that you lost faith in me.  Why couldn’t you have just trusted me for a little bit longer? We would have figured it out.  You would have. I believed in you then. I believe in you still.

I’ll never forgive you, Sherlock Holmes!

~~I hate you!~~

I hate …

 

 

**July 1, 2011**

 

_17 days …_

 

Mrs Husdon forced me out of bed today. Well, off the sofa, anyway. I don’t sleep in my bed anymore. Too far to climb. God that woman’s persistent.

Had a lovely spot of tea and some biscuits.

Vomited them up after she left.

I’m tired, Sherlock.

 

 

**July 3 rd, 2011**

 

_19 days …_

 

Called Sarah and quit the surgery. I can’t take care of myself right now let alone patients.

She was okay with my not giving her more notice.

Nice of her.

 

 

**July 5 th, 2011**

 

_21 days …_

 

Why I am writing anyway?  It’s not like you’ll ever read these words on my blog. No one will.  Private, don’t ya ken?  Have been writing in this private blog for a while now, though. Used it to keep straight all the things in my head that I needed to keep sorted.  Not as good as your mind palace, but it works.  Stored it all on a flash drive and hid it away so you couldn’t find it.  You probably did, though. You always found the things I didn’t want you to find, you posh git.  Thanks for not letting me know that you had, though.  I appreciate that.  Suppose I can do away with the flash drive now and just keep it on my laptop.

I hate that I can do that.

I guess writing breaks up the monotony of sleep. Something else to do. ~~Something to look forward to?~~  After all, there’s only so much sleep a girl can get, right?

Okay, maybe not.  I don’t have to think … no, I don’t have to _feel_ when I’m asleep.  Why is it, then, that you didn’t sleep more than you did?  You feel, Sherlock.  I know you do. Probably more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known.  You just struggle with interpreting the emotions.  I’d like to think I’ve helped you with that a bit.  Maybe?

Harry stopped by today.  He brought me a large bottle of 21-year-old Macallan. Typical Harry.

At least he’s not cheap.

 

 

**July 8 th, 2011**

 

_24 days …_

 

Greg stops by every few days to check on me. He says it’s because he’s bored – still on suspension – but I know that he and Mrs H are conspiring to keep an eye on me.  Probably reporting to Mycroft, too.  I keep sweeping the flat for bugs.  You’d be proud of me, Sherlock.  I’ve found all the video cameras, but I kept one of the audio devices.  It’s not as though there’s much going on for Mycroft to listen to, only crap telly and Mrs Hudson except when Greg is here; if Lestrade _is_ reporting to Mycroft, the recordings only reinforce Greg’s account.

I’m nothing if not accommodating.

I don’t worry much about new cameras being installed. I rarely leave the flat, so unless your brother’s spooks are going to sneak in during the middle of the night …

Greg stopped by with take away today.

Haven’t had Chinese since you and I found that new little dim sum place down in Chelsea last month.  Didn’t think we could find an egg roll to top the ones here in Baker Street, but we did.  That was a good night.  On a case for three days.   Exhausted, but you ate. I was always so grateful to see you eat. You told me about Victor. Thank you for that. It wasn’t easy for you – sentiment, after all – but I don’t think I’ve ever felt as connected to you as I did at that moment.

That’s a lie.  There was one other time. And I treasure that more than you’ll ever know.  Not idealistic. Just truth.

The egg rolls that Greg brought didn’t stay down.

 

 

**July 15 th, 2011**

 

_31 days …_

 

Mrs Hudson has asked me to go with her to your grave today.  One month, after all. I told her I would.

I was sick before we left and again when we got home.

Please, Sherlock.  _Stop_ this. I just can’t …

 

**July 31 st, 2011**

 

_47 days …_

 

Tried to leave Baker Street.  That lasted for all of a fortnight.

Too many memories here. Not enough memories anywhere else.

I miss you so much.

 

 

**August 3 rd, 2011**

 

_Day 50 …_

 

Fair to say that I’m depressed, but I won’t go back to Ella.  I can’t.

The scotch is smooth, but it just makes things worse.  I think I understand why you turned to cocaine.  Stimulant versus depressant.  Makes sense.

I’ll figure this out. 

It’s been a chilly, grey summer, Sherlock.  Even for London. I’m cold all of the time. Can’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers I wear.  I know how much you hate my jumpers, but they come in handy.  Keep me comfortable as well as hide from Mrs H and Greg the fact that I’ve lost nearly a stone.

I eat.  I do. I promise.  It’s my body that won’t cooperate.

Stress and grief are a powerful emetic, it seems.

 

 

**August 8 th, 2011**

 

_Day 55 …_

 

The nightmares are back.  I keep my Browning close now, not just when Mycroft drops in. Not that he has since “The Signing.” I’m able to kill ~~my~~ our enemies in my dreams.  My weapon gives me some comfort, I guess.

_Oh!_

I just realised something, Sherlock. Your violin … you played it to keep my nightmares at bay, didn’t you?

You _did_.

Yes, I’m an idiot for not having grasped that until now.

Thank you, though.  I’m sorry that I never said that before.

 

  **August 10 th, 2011**

 

_Day 57 …_

 

I’m glad you have a lot of coats, Sherlock.

They smell like you.

 

 

**August 11 th, 2011**

 

_Day 58 …_

 

Scotch keeps the nightmares away, too.

 

**August 13, 2011**

My stomach hurts.  Nauseated all the time.  Bloody stomach flu.

**August 15 th, 2011**

 

_What day is it?_

Oh. 

 

**August 15 th, 2011 (Part Two) … funny, that …**

 

May I say that I _completely_ underestimated the therapeutic value of shooting the wall, Sherlock? I apologize for having _ever_ been angry with you about that.

I recommend that the _next_ time you try it, you do so after having had half a bottle of scotch!

So! Much! Better! WITH SCOTCH!!!

Definitely helps me hate you less for tossing yourself off a building and leaving me here alone.

~~Happy Two-Month Anniversary,~~ you sod.

You were right.  Bloody wall had it coming.

 

 

**August 16 th, 2011**

 

Upon further reflection, shooting at the wall while thoroughly pissed on scotch – or any hard liquor, for that matter – is **_not_** recommended!

Mycroft will probably take care of the ASBO if I ask him, but I don’t think anything will take care of this hangover. I’d pour out the rest of the bottle if there was any left.  I think I’ve burned a hole in my stomach lining.  How in the sodding hell does Harry do this every day?! 

Sorry that I’m swearing so much. I know you hate that about me. You said that dust was eloquent, but you are even more so.  Always. I’d blame it on my inner soldier, but I just don’t give a ruddy shite right now.  Ooops!  Sorry.

Mycroft was … resigned by the whole thing (yes, he popped in), but I’ve never seen Greg so angry; given all the crap that you’ve pulled over the years that’s bloody well saying something.

He’s still suspended, but Greg called in a favour at the Yard for bloody sniffer dogs to be brought in for a drugs bust. Not Donovan and Anderson thank God. I think he knew that I wouldn’t have been able to control myself in that event.  Publically offing a pair of coppers no matter how vile they are is just a bit not good, I guess.

Dogs found the cocaine you had hidden away under the coils in the fridge – you bastard!  We’ve talked about that. 

Greg could tell I didn’t know it was there and managed to convince the PC on scene of that, so those charges weren’t added to my ASBO.  Would I have used it if I had known?

Good question.

You would be disappointed in me, Greg said.

Are you?  Come back and tell me that you are, and I’ll never swear or drink again.

Or I can come to you.

Greg took my Browning.

 

 

**August 19 th, 2011**

 

Even Dante eventually made his way out of Hell.

But he had Virgil.

My Virgil is dead.

 

 

**August 31 st, 2011**

 

_Day …_

 

Sorry that I haven’t written for a while, Sherlock. No energy.

I thought I’d let you know that I’m no longer sleeping on the sofa.  It’s not as good a thing as it sounds, though, as I’m usually kipping on the floor next to the loo.

My stomach hurts all the time. Nothing stays down anymore. Tea.  Broth sometimes.  If it’s liquid, I can handle it for a little bit before most of it comes back up. I’m thankful for the nutrition drinks and shakes that I have delivered from Tesco.  I take my tea with sugar now.  It’s absolutely vile!  I need the calories, though. 

Should probably see a doctor – other than myself – but I can’t really be arsed to care.  Maybe I’ll hook myself up to some IV fluids.  I think I still have the equipment around.

I used some of your money to send Mrs Hudson on a cruise with her sister.  She’s been so worried about me, and I wanted to let her know how much I’ve appreciated her concern.  Left earlier this week, and she’ll be gone for a month.

Okay fine.  Yes, I did it to get her out of my hair for a while, but she appreciated the gesture, so what does it matter?  The fact that her cruise is at the same time that Greg is tied up at the Yard with the first round of his reinstatement hearings is just coincidence.

Oh, don’t give me that!  Yes, I know that the universe is rarely so lazy – you’ve said that before – but _I_ apparently am.

I’m thankful for the peace and quiet. I don’t have to worry about whether or not they’ll see past the heavy jumpers to the ribs that are starting to show beneath or the fact that I’ve had my hair cut like it was when I was in the Army because it was getting far too grey and thin.

I don’t have to worry that they’ll see how pathetic I’ve become.

Can you see me, Sherlock?

If so, I’m sorry.

I should be stronger.  I used to be made of sturdier stuff, but I’ve come to understand that the soldier in me – the one you relied upon so much – died in Afghanistan. She never made it back to England. What returned to London was a hollow wraith of a thing.  The bravery and fearlessness of that woman died when the enemy put a bullet in her shoulder.

She only came back to life because of you.

You breathed strength and courage and audacity back into me, Sherlock.  You gave me a purpose again, and now that ‘s gone …

I’m a marionette whose strings have been cut: lifeless and useless.

I can’t even maintain an extended metaphor without mixing it all around.  You’re right. I’m shite as a writer.

Greg tells me that there’s always a point, always a _reason_ for the way things turn out as they do.  He’s become quite the philosopher since your death.  He loved you so much, you know.  Don’t scoff. He did.  He does.  I think you love him, too.  He saved you long before you saved me.  I’m grateful for that. So are you.

There’s always a purpose, he says.

I can’t see the purpose in any of this.

Not anymore.

 

**September 2 nd, 2011**

 

I’ve been such a blind idiot.

Oh, God, Sherlock!  What have I done?

 

 

**September 2, 2011 - 221B Baker Street**

 

Shortly before Moriarty’s trial, Sherlock had insisted Joanna trade in the mobile that Harry had given her when she returned to London for a newer model.  Its reception was unreliable at best, and given the unpredictability of the defendant, Sherlock needed to know that he could always get in touch with Joanna, no matter where or when.  And he had been.

Right to the very end. 

Joanna had been grateful for that much, at least.

There were only four numbers programmed into the device. In her opinion, speed dial was so called for one of two reasons:  expediency or emergency.  Jo felt that relying solely on programmed features was lazy and in fact impaired her memory more than helped it.  Contrary to what Sherlock thought, her mind held onto information quite well, ta very much. She was a bloody doctor, after all. Any other numbers she needed she could remember well enough when the time came.  Well, at least under normal circumstances.

Joanna was starting to suspect that the circumstances were now anything but normal.

999 was the default programmed in at setting one. Right.

Though she was desperate to do so, the second number she could not call.  _DON’T DELETE!_

The fourth belonged to the … wait. What did she call him? Oh.  The Bastard.  She would not call him unless there was _no_ other recourse.

Joanna was braced with a trembling hand – intermittent no longer – against the solid wood of the kitchen table and willed her stomach to settle for just a few moments.  God, her head hurt.  Felt packed with cotton wool set aflame. 

What she had seen in the bowl of the loo had shocked her even more than the violent, unexpected way in which she had brought up the mess of sick.  She wiped at the dampness at the corner of her mouth and tried to ignore the smudge of red that trailed across the back of her hand in its wake.  The bitter taste of copper lingered on her tongue as she thumbed across the glass screen of her mobile and pressed the third number, waiting for it to connect. That’s the one she wanted, right?  Three … three … three …

It rang through to voice mail.

She tried again.

_Not 999, please. Can’t handle A &E. Why not?   Alone. No, can’t do it … not alone! Stupid.  Idiot. I’m a doctor.  Know better._

Joanna pressed the button a third time and struggled to focus on the smiling photo of the DI that appeared on the screen before again bringing the mobile to her ear. 

  _lease, please, please!_

“Jo?  I’m in the middle of the hearing, what –“

“S – something’s … wrong, Greg.” Joanna felt her legs buckle and her peripheral vision seemed to fragment with light as  though through a prism before growing dark with shadows near the edges. She blinked hard in an attempt to refocus. 

“Jo!” Greg’s voice was distant in her ear like a whisper through a tin tube.  “What is it? What’s wrong!”

“Vomiting blood … it’s dark … too much,” she gasped. Her breathing was becoming laboured. “Hard to … can’t remember … diagnosis wrong … can’t think to … need to _think_!  B–bleeding …?”

“Jo, call 999.  Call them now!”

“They’ll take me to Bart’s.  I – I _can’t_ ,” Joanna felt terror grip her.  She tried to push it back.  She was _strong_.  She should be able to force it back, but it resurged unbidden.  The dead soldier in her howled with humiliation.

Outside a windowless conference room at New Scotland Yard, Gregory Lestrade snapped his fingers at the legal council the Federation had provided him, grabbing her attention.  “Emergency call for 221B Baker Street.  Thirty-nine year old female, possible internal bleeding.  Make the call.”  The woman looked at him blankly.  “Now!” he barked and she scrambled for her mobile.

Turning back to the phone in his hand, Greg could hear the panic rise in his friend’s breathing on the other end of the line. University College Hospital was closer than Bart’s, but fear was confusing her normally sensible mind. “Joanna,” he said in the soothing voice he used when comforting victims, “help is on the way.” His council nodded at him in the affirmative as she provided the emergency dispatchers with the Baker Street address. “I’ll meet you at Bart’s.” Greg didn’t know if he was right or wrong, but he decided it was simpler to play along than attempt to talk her down at this point.  “You won’t be alone, luv.  I promise.”

“Greg …?”  There was something she wanted to say.  What was it?

“It’ll be okay, Jo.”  Her next words – ones Greg never thought he would hear the stalwart soldier say – ripped him apart.

“I’m afraid.”

“Jo, please don’t.  Everything will be fine.  The paramedics will be there in … ” he glanced at fingers his councillor held up, “… in four minutes. Just breathe, okay. Jo?  Jo?!”  

But Joanna couldn’t breathe anymore. It was too thin. Thready.  Her shaking legs finally gave way beneath her.  She felt the side of her head connect with the edge of the table as she fell. 

If Greg Lestrade said anything else, Joanna never heard it.

There was only one voice that followed her into the darkness.  It was deep and rich like polished rosewood.

_Goodbye, Joanna._

_No! SHERLOCK!!_

 

 


	2. The Uncharted Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being knocked around by General Shan and her minions, Joanna's injuries are tended to; Sherlock returns to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Ariane DeVere for her fabulous Sherlock transcripts. Writing would be much harder without them.
> 
> Please note that for the next several chapters, the timeline will shift through various points within the three series. I will always list dates, but I will not list episode titles as the events of the relevant episodes should be clear within the narrative.

* * *

 

 

“ **My course is set for an uncharted sea.”**

**~ Dante Alighieri, _Paradiso_**

 

 

**Late March 2010 - 221B Baker Street**

 

Joanna’s head jerked back at the first touch of the antiseptic swab at her temple.

“Bloody hell, that stings!” she hissed.

“Just sit _still_ and let me take care of this.” Sherlock said, gripping her chin in his fingers to keep her from squirming.

Joanna pulled from his hold with a glare before she glanced at the table where the contents of her medical kit were scattered about: antiseptic pads, ointment, suture kit, tablets of this sort and that, iodine, betadine, bandages, plasters, scissors, forceps, tongue depressors, tweezers, even her neurological hammer.  He wouldn’t need half of it, but Sherlock always preferred to have all potential resources at his fingertips.  Bugger. It would take her forever to organise the bag again. 

Sherlock disposed of the first swab, reached for another, and wiped it carefully against the largest of her lacerations.   Joanna lurched again, and this time the chair in which she was sitting skidded back across the kitchen floor.

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “ _You’re_ the one who refused treatment at the scene.  ‘I’m a ruddy doctor,’” he mocked in a disturbingly accurate imitation of Joanna’s voice.  “If you don’t want me to do this _fine_ , but it’s either here or A&E, and I  _Will_.  Go. With.  You.”

Joanna eyed him warily as his not so subtle threat hung in the air between them.  The last time they landed in A&E was one of the most exhausting experiences in Joanna’s life. 

Jo had never really understood the craze of skip diving; apparently it was one hell of a way to find all manner of fascinating items for free.  One man’s trash was another man’s treasure, and all that.  The only thing Jo gained from the experience was 15 stitches to the back of her right calf and a tetanus jab, but then she was diving after an extortionist, not an abandoned PlayStation 2 or coin collection.  An extortionist who – courtesy of the jagged edge of the rusty skip – managed to get away when Joanna sliced her leg open.

Sherlock’s frustration at the suspect’s escape combined with his irritation at having to take her to A&E rather than pursue the man further had led to an epic encounter with the nurses who insisted that because he wasn’t family, he couldn’t sit with Joanna during her treatment. The resulting flurry of deductions – Joanna _really_ hadn’t needed to know about her attending physician’s scritching and fur pile fetish – nearly found them both tossed out, but Jo managed to talk down both the consulting detective and security, so Sherlock was allowed to stay; strop in full force.

She and Sherlock had only been sharing a flat for about six weeks, so she was just getting used to Sherlock’s “moods.” The deep sighs, the dramatic flops on the sofa, the whole ‘I am too weary for this world’ affectation was initially rather upsetting to Joanna who hated to see her friend so dismayed. Her concern rapidly flared to irritation at the frequency and futility of such tempers, but eventually she began to see them as simply another facet of Sherlock’s eccentric nature. After awhile, she almost found them endearing … _almost_. Then came the A &E incident. She had only _just_ managed not to strangle him to death with his own scarf that night.  Oh, it had been _so_ tempting! She was already annoyed and in considerable pain from the injury to say nothing about ruining her favourite pair of jeans, and had little patience for his huffing, puffing, and drama queen performance.

“Fine,” Jo said, peevishly. No way was she going to risk a repeat performance.  Not tonight. She was too damn tired.

Sherlock muttered something about doctors and horrifying patients then pulled his chair closer, his knees pressed up on either side of hers.  His foot then curled around the leg of the chair to hold it, and her, in place.  Resigned to her fate, Joanna scooted to the edge of her chair to make things a bit easier for him and tried not to flinch each time Sherlock swabbed her wounds.

As he dabbed on antibiotic ointment and then affixed the butterfly plasters, Joanna realised that Sherlock was better at this than she would have guessed.  The warmth of his fingers through the thin barrier of the nitrile gloves was oddly soothing. Usually Jo was the one doing the honours after the pair of them went haring off after this suspect or that, but her own hands were still too unsteady to be of much use tonight. His, however, were gentle yet sure, their confidence born from his intense observations each time she tended his wounds.

With a fresh swab, Sherlock turned his attention to the cut beneath her right eye.  “This will probably blacken,” he said more to himself than to her.

“I can live with that, considering,” Joanna said, her voice thoughtful. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement. As he spread ointment on the graze with his thumb, his long fingers reached around the nape of Joanna’s neck and gently probed the knot behind her right ear.   She winced and the fingers stopped immediately, instead resting lightly against the curve of her skull.

“It’s not the girls’ night out that I was looking for, but I’ll certainly never forget it,” Joanna said, trying to keep her tone light.  She really didn’t want to dwell on how close she and Sarah had come to dying.  Concussed and tied to a chair, Captain Joanna Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had never felt so helpless in her life as she did when General Shan had turned the crossbow on her friend.

“Sherlock …”  

She grasped his wrist hoping that her squeeze would say all that she wanted to convey:  Thank you for coming after us; for saving me from that bed-sit; for being my friend; for being you.

Sherlock’s thumb stilled on her cheek, and his eyes widened slightly from what he deduced in her expression.  In that moment Joanna could read his thoughts clearly as doubt, confusion, guilt, bewilderment, and fondness flashed across his face. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, and when he found whatever it was he was looking for, he smiled.

“You’re my blogger,” he said with a slight shrug, as though that explained everything.

And it did.

 

* * *

 

**November 3 rd, 2013 - The Diogenes Club**

 

“I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock.  Is that quite clear?” Mycroft insisted as he watched his younger brother adjust the lay of his clothing.

“What do you think of this shirt?” Sherlock asked. He tucked the bespoke item into his trousers, inspecting his reflection in the mirror of Mycroft’s office – bunker – deep beneath the hallowed and silent rooms of the Diogenes Club.

“Sherlock!”  Mycroft’s exasperation at his brother’s lack of focus was clear.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at The British Government and only just managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “I will _find_ your underground terror cell, Mycroft.”  He grabbed the black suit jacket that Anthea had brought him. “Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

“One of our men _died_ getting this information,” Anthea interrupted, indicating the numerous folders she held in her hands.  “All the chatter, all the traffic concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.”

Sherlock wondered if there was such a thing as a _small_ terror strike, but he kept that to himself.  He had more important issues that he needed addressed.  “And what about Joanna Watson?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened imperceptibly. He knew this question would come up sooner or later, but he had truly hoped that it would be later … _much_ later.  “Joanna?”

“Mmmmm …” Sherlock’s tone was casual, seemingly disinterested, as he slid his arms into the tailored jacket and flattened the collar.  “Have you seen her?”

“Oh yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips,” Mycroft infused as much sarcasm into his words as he could manage. Lying to Sherlock was as pointless as ever, but he needed to distract him from the full truth for now. He gestured to Anthea, who handed Sherlock a folder.  “I’ve kept a … weather eye on her, of course.”

Sherlock opened the file and flipped through the report, keen eyes skimming the decidedly vague details within. He was about to close the folder and toss it to Mycroft’s desk when two photos slid from the back of the file – surveillance stills.  Sherlock’s heart stuttered a bit in his chest as he pulled the pictures to the front of the file and looked upon a face he once knew as well as his own. 

Joanna Watson hadn’t changed at all in two years and yet nothing about her was the same.  Her deep blue eyes, still welcoming, no longer sparkled as they had done. The curve of her lips – Sherlock pushed back the memory of their gentle softness – didn’t smile as broadly as he remembered.  Her hair was longer, well past her shoulders now, rather becoming save that the wheat blonde locks were streaked heavily with silver.  The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes had grown deeper, no longer shaped from the mirth of a playfully sarcastic yet brutally honest heart but with the heavy burdens of a warrior for whom the battle had never ended. She was beautiful but exhaustion rested on her every feature.

Mycroft watched his brother’s eyes grow fond as he studied the photos, and though Mycroft would never admit it, his own throat grew somewhat tight as he observed Sherlock.  So much had happened.  So much had changed. 

“You haven’t been in touch at all? To prepare her?” Mycroft knew the answer to the question, but it needed to be asked nonetheless.  Appearances had to be maintained.

“No,” Sherlock said, distractedly. His fingers skimmed the smooth surface of the images for a moment before he caught Mycroft’s gaze on him. He stiffened and cleared his throat, uncomfortable with his brother’s scrutiny.  “Well, we’ll have to get rid of those.”  He pointed dismissively at the spectacles Joanna wore in the second photo. 

“We?”

“She looks … ancient.” Sherlock’s conscience – which had long since taken on the soft contralto of Joanna’s voice – chastised his choice of words, but he persisted lest his brother suss out the truth of his feelings. Mycroft’s actions in Serbia had proven to Sherlock that in Mycroft’s world, caring was _still_ not much of an advantage.

“I can’t be seen wandering around with an old woman.” The voice in his mind grew irate.  _Oh, a bit not good, Sherlock Holmes_! _Bit not good **at all**_!

Sherlock closed the file and dropped it on Mycroft’s desk. “I think I’ll surprise Joanna. She’ll be delighted!”

“You think so?”  Mycroft’s smile was cynical yet well he knew how little his brother understood human nature.  Even after all this time.

“Hmmm.  I’ll pop into Baker Street.  Who knows – jump out of a cake,” Sherlock said expansively.

Mycroft frowned.  “Baker Street?  She isn’t there anymore.”  _Oh, Sherlock_ , he thought at his brother’s puzzled look. “Why _would_ she be?  It’s been two years. She’s moved on with her life.”

“What life?” Sherlock was genuinely astonished. “I’ve been away.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and thankfully Sherlock missed the expression.  He had the utmost confidence in his brother’s ability to solve the terrorist plot, but his faith that Sherlock would be able to navigate his way through the complex maze that was going to be his relationship with Joanna Watson was diminishing exponentially. 

“Where’s she going to be tonight?” demanded Sherlock.

“How would _I_ know?”

Sherlock advanced on his brother, his voice tense. “You _always_ know.”

“She and a friend have dinner reservations in the Marylebone Road,” Mycroft conceded.  “Nice little spot.  They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion … though I prefer the 2001.”

“I think maybe I’ll just drop by.”

_Oh dear lord!_

“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome,” Mycroft’s tone urged caution though he knew it would be ignored.

“No it isn’t,” Sherlock scoffed as though Mycroft’s suggestion was the most ridiculous he had heard since leaving London. Of course Joanne would welcome him. It’s what he had been planning on for two years.  “Now … where is it?”

“Where’s what?”  Mycroft asked.

“You _know_ what.”

Mycroft was puzzled by Sherlock’s non sequitur, but Anthea had clearly anticipated the consulting detective’s needs; she appeared in the doorway of the office, Sherlock’s Belstaff held open in her hands.

Sherlock smiled with delight, slipping his arms into the sleeves as the PA lifted it onto his shoulders, collar popped and at the ready. 

“Welcome back, Mr Holmes,” she said with genuine warmth. 

“Thank you …” Sherlock tugged the collar tips into alignment before turning to his brother, “… blud,” he said sarcastically before swanning off down the hallway.

“You didn’t give him the rest of Doctor Watson’s file,” Anthea said after Sherlock rounded the corner, out of earshot. She indicated the pile of folders on Mycroft’s desk.

“No,” Mycroft said all together too casually. “It’s best that she fill in the particulars, I think.”

“That’s new for you, sir.”

“Don’t worry, my dear.  I’m not about to make it a habit,” Mycroft assured her.

“I don’t understand.”

Mycroft sniffed.  He wasn’t shocked by her admission.  “I’m living in a world of goldfish.  On the rare occasion, I come across someone who is an exceptional– one might even say _extraordinary_ – goldfish, but a goldfish nonetheless.  My brother is such a creature.”

“As is Doctor Watson, then?”

“Assuredly not,” Mycroft said. He took his seat behind his desk, opened the comprehensive files on Joanna Watson, and spread a great many more photos out on the smooth surface.  “She has become something altogether different.  Something for which even her time in the Army did not allow.”

“And what is that, sir?”

Mycroft picked up a still from his desk. Joanna looked much the same as she did in the photos he had provided Sherlock, except that in this one – taken outside a private surgery on Harley Street only three weeks ago – her eyes glowed with a fierce determination that he knew first hand was rivalled only by his own.

“Doctor Watson is a piranha, and one whose teeth I do not care to have turned on me.”  He smiled appreciatively at the pictures before gathering them up and handing the files back to Anthea.  “This business is between my brother and the good doctor.  Far be it from me to deprive Sherlock of what is sure to be an illuminating and, dare I say, life-altering experience.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure that some of you are wondering about the reason behind Joanna's collapse in Chapter One. I promise it will be revealed in the next chapter. I just want to build to it a bit more.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely kudos posted thus far. Remember that comments are the spice of life for writers. I'd love to know what you think. Be it constructive criticism, plot bunny ideas, and, especially, praise if you deem this worthy.
> 
> Thanks!


	3. Our Fate is a Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joanna learns about bees and gets the shock of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor. I do not even play one on TV. Like so many people, my "medical degree" is courtesy of many online resources. I have done my best in the research, and I'm a bit of a stickler for accuracy, but I cannot guarantee that the science is 100 percent sound. But then ... neither am I. ;) 
> 
> Let me know what you think after you read this chapter. Reviews are love! Constructive criticism is cool, too. :)
> 
> Hopefully there aren't too many errors in this chapter. I didn't have as much time to glean through it as I usually do as I wanted to get it out before my busy weekend.
> 
> Ta!

* * *

 

**“Do not be afraid; our fate**

**Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”**

**~ Dante Alighieri, _Inferno_**

 

 

**Late March 2010 – 221B Baker Street**

 

“Joanna?”

“Hmmmm? Sleeping, Sh’lock.” A quick glance at her clock showed half two in the morning; she pulled the fluffy duvet over her head to ignore her flatmate.

“Joanna …”

“Go ‘way.  Head hurts, so sleeping.”  She burrowed further under her pillow.

“Joanna, please …”

That word got her attention, and she popped her head above the covers, wincing as one of the plasters on her forehead caught on the sheet. “What _is_ it, Sherlock?”  She blinked sleepily, trying to focus on the man who was illuminated only by the light from the hallway.

“May I watch you sleep?”

In the lull between two stunned heartbeats, Joanna decided to forgo addressing the whole ‘Sherlock that’s just a bit creepy’ issue and the ‘Why did you wake me just to ask if you could watch me sleep?’ question. Might as well ask him why he preferred his blue scarf to his green one.  Sometimes the length of the answer just didn’t warrant asking the question.

Instead she propped herself up on her elbow, pushed her long hair out of her eyes, and – per Sherlock’s _frequent_ request – observed.  Sherlock’s expression was as inscrutable as always, but she caught something in his eyes that was a bit troublesome.  He was uneasy.  Well, that was new.

“Okaaaay … ummmm … why?”

Sherlock blinked owlishly as though he hadn’t anticipated this question and needed to suss out his answer before replying. Several long moments passed between them, but she knew he’d answer when he was ready.

“I find myself … unsettled by your abduction tonight and the subsequent injuries you sustained.”

“So, is it because you want to be sure _I’m_ okay or because you’re not sure that _you’re_ okay?”

“Yes,” he said with a slow nod as if just now realising that both circumstances were possible.

“Fine.”  Joanna was surprised but pleased by Sherlock’s concern.  She’d been injured out on cases before and it had never been an issue unless it inconvenienced him in some way, the git.  She noted the cautious way in which he was expressing his disquiet. It was as though he was protecting himself more than her.  Which was fine. She had always had little patience for over-protective men, and appreciated that Sherlock saw her as an equal. Well, at least where gender issues were concerned. Nevertheless, the fact that he was worried about her was … well, it was good.  “There’s no chair in here.  I’ll scoot over so you can sit.”

“Unnecessary.  The floor will be fine.”  Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around his body, folded his long limbs under him, and sat down on the floor with his back against the side of the bed nearest her head.  He opened the book he had brought with him and cocked his head back to look at her over the mattress.

“I disrupted your sleep.  I imagine that you might find it initially awkward returning to it with me in the room.  I could read aloud if you think it would help.”

“What are you reading?” Joanna reached to the bottom of her bed and grabbed the soft throw her grandmother had knitted her years ago.   She nudged him to budge up and wrapped it around his shoulders.  It was bloody cold in her room, after all.

“An 1866 monograph on apiary culture by Alfred Neighbor.”

“Well, that’s sure to help, then,” Jo replied dryly. Sherlock grunted and fluttered his hand at her, dismissive of her sarcasm, and began to read by the light that filtered in from the hallway.

_“A fortnight must be allowed for filling the stock-hive; then, if the weather be fine and warm, they will prepare to swarm again, as will be indicated by the thermometer rising rapidly to 100 degrees or upwards …”_

Jo tucked the corner of her pillow back under her neck and settled on her side facing Sherlock, hugging the mountain of blankets to her body.   As he read she found herself drawn in by the expressive nature of his voice.  When he was deducing the actions of a serial killer, expounding upon the results of his latest experiment, or haranguing Anderson about his general incompetence and questionable choice of personal hygiene products, Sherlock’s voice tended toward the dramatic.  This, however, was different.  He read to her in the same way that he spoke to her:  animated and personal without being affected or stagey.  This was the _real_ Sherlock Holmes.

_“The directions for taking honey are much the same as before mentioned. Some apiarians, however, consider that deprivation is more easily accomplished by disconnecting …”_

She scooted closer to the edge of the bed, ostensibly to read over his shoulder, but in truth because after the terror of the Tramway, she just needed to be close to someone.  She could see the vivid bruises encircling his neck from where he had been strangled by Soo Lin’s brother.  Sherlock, too, had nearly died … again.  

Joanna thought for a moment about their propensity for finding themselves in life-threatening situations, the fact that she had on more than one occasion saved his life, and worried about what would happen if – one day – she wasn’t there to save his arse.   A world without Sherlock Holmes.  Her stomach turned so violently at the idea that Jo thought she might be physically ill.  She forced down the bile from her throat and focused on the resonant sounds that filled her room.

Sherlock’s voice was soothing, hypnotic, and without realizing it, her fingers began to card through the curls on the back of his head.  Sherlock’s narration stopped, and Joanna froze.  Through her fingertips, she could practically feel him weighing his response. He rolled his neck once, pressed back against the flat of her palm in tacit consent to her ministrations, and resumed his recitation.  Joanna smiled.

_“Whilst on the subject of feeding, it may be well to suggest to the bee-keeper, that, after the honey harvest …”_

She fell back to sleep thinking of bees, a voice like warm honey, and thick curls softer than cashmere.

 

 

* * *

 

**September 4, 2011 – University College Hospital**

 

As per her usual, it was the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor that brought her ‘round.  When healthy, conscious, and the attending physician, Joanna rarely noticed the sound when the machine’s leads were attached to one of her charges in hospital be it brick and mortar or battlefield.  When she was the injured/sick/dying patient, trying to cling to the darkness, however, the annoying ping hovered, tickling her consciousness at a pitch that was more grating than Mycroft on a diet. She didn’t want to leave the darkness. It was comfortable. Familiar.  She wanted to stay where the bees hummed, honey dripped, and a deep voice soothed her dreams.

The beeping continued.

Sometimes she really hated technology.

“Turn it off!  Beating just fine.  Don’t broadcast it.” Joanna demanded, though it was more of a dry-throated murmur than her commanding Army voice. Nonetheless, there was bit of shuffling at her side, a brief rattle, and then blissful silence.

A hand pressed lightly on her shoulder, and Joanna opened her eyes.  She blinked to focus on the tired face above her.

“Hey there, sunshine,” Greg Lestrade said smiling down at her before he pressed a blessed ice chip and then another to her parched lips. Greg had been in hospital enough – either as patient or concerned friend – to know the drill. He was the second one listed on her emergency contact sheet right after Sherlock. Well, first one, now. Harry didn’t make the cut.

As the ice melted on her tongue, and her brain came back online, Joanna ran through a mental roadmap of her body, assessing her condition.  There was a slight pulling at her forehead.  Stitches. At least eight or nine to judge by the size of the bandage adhered to her skin.  Resultant headache indicated at concussion. Good crack to the head, then. Fuzzy.  Painkillers.  Headache could be worse.  Lovely. Similar tugging in her right upper abdominal area.  Also bandaged. Smaller.  Only three to four sutures.  Laparoscopy incision?  Emergency abdominal surgery.  Great. No intravenous lines in her arms or hands but a sharp pinch at her neck.  Oh, bollocks!  Central line. She scrutinized her arms again. Plump veins now, good hydration, but clearly that had not initially been the case. 

“How long?” she asked.

“Two days.  They've kept you sedated to help with the pain.”  Greg offered her another chip.

Joanna declined.  “Bit not good, then.”

“To put it mildly, Doctor Watson.”

Joanna groaned at the sound of Mycroft’s pedantic voice to her right.  She didn’t even try to cover it up as a one of pain.  What was the point?

Greg glared at the man sitting with his legs crossed in a chair on the other side of the bed, but said nothing. Instead, he pulled his own chair closer, and took Jo’s hand in his.  “Hate to say it, but he’s right,” he admitted to Joanna.  “Have you always had an ulcer?”

She nodded.  “Small one.  Since my second tour.”

“Well, you aggravated the hell out of it. Bleeding was such that the docs needed to operate.  Not life-threatening, mind you, but bad enough.”

That would explain the blood that she had vomited. Contrary to popular myth, ulcers were rarely caused stress.  Exacerbated by it, yes, but the excessive use of anti-inflammatory drugs or – in her case – a bacterial infection was typically the culprit.  The stress of combat medicine in the field followed by nearly dying from a sniper’s bullet had kept her ulcer relatively active for years, but careful monitoring and antacids had kept things calm.  Then she met Sherlock, and what the average person would classify as a high stress-inducing lifestyle destined on eating a hole through her gut was actually the best medicine she could ever have asked for.   Her symptoms faded with time, and Joanna had largely forgotten that she had ever been plagued with the malady.

“S-Sherlock’s suic – ” she couldn’t say it. “Sherlock’s … fall is more than enough to induce the stress necessary for this kind of bleed,” Joanna said, slipping into doctor mode.  Clinical. Stay clinical. “But that kind of damage doesn’t just happen over night, and my ulcer was largely healed.  It takes weeks for the stomach lining to weaken to such a point, yet I’ve been ill for much longer than that.”

Joanna studied the concerned expression on Greg’s face carefully.   He was worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.  Hiding something.  Something … not good?   Turning her head, she observed a similar expression – though one wholly Mycroftian – on the face of The British Government. 

“Yes.  You have been.  Quite ill, in fact,” Mycroft confirmed.  “And yet you’ve managed to hide it all rather effectively.  I would congratulate you, Doctor Watson, for such an impressive feat, if it the consequences weren’t so potentially dire.”

“It wasn’t exactly deliberate,” Joanna said, defensively.

“Yes, the depression, I know,” he said dismissively.

Joanna started as though he had physically struck her with his sarcasm.  She sat up on the bed, already reaching for the bastard, but Greg’s firm grasp and a sudden surge of pain in her abdomen stayed her.

“Mycroft!  Behave yourself,” Greg warned, but Mycroft continued unabated.

"In the two months since Sherlock’s death you’ve lost nearly 8 per cent of your body weight.  You stand five foot four inches yet your weight is barely seven stone. You suffer from a severe electrolyte imbalance resulting in skeletal muscle weakness, headaches, confusion, and even cardiac arrhythmias.  How you managed to avoid seizing altogether is something your physicians can’t even begin to understand.  You’ve nearly exhausted your Vitamin B reserves, but thankfully there’s no evidence of lesions along your central nervous system.  Thiamine supplementation and electrolyte replacement therapy have already begun,” Mycroft said, indicating the numerous bags of fluid dripping into her central line.  “Your oesophagus is seriously abraded.  You are anaemic, and the cramping and twitching in your muscles are not the result of your experience in Afghanistan but of peripheral neuropathy.  You are, to use the vernacular, a proper _mess_.”

He had read her file.  Talked to her doctors.  “Is _nothing_ sacred to you?” Joanna growled.  Greg’s grip tightened.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Jo.”  Greg took her hand again, hoping to deflect her attention from the elder Holmes.  “You’ve been very ill, but you’re mending.  There’s still your mental health to consider, too, though.  You’re mourning.  We _all_ are, but yours has become dangerous.  You have to talk to someone.  It _won’t_ be Ella.  I promise that we’ll find you someone who knows how to treat your specific needs. Someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.   You have to know, though, that the bleeding ulcer is really a secondary concern. There’s something else going on.  Now the doctors are confident about your recovery, in _every_ way, but there will be some … long-lasting effects.”

Joanna slumped back against her pillow and closed her eyes.  She knew Greg was right about seeing a therapist.  She hated it, but he was right.  God, she despised this. She didn’t even recognize herself anymore, and it disgusted her. Physically, though …. Jo ran through all of the items that Mycroft had listed, and while her mind was clearer now than it had been in weeks – ta very much, IV hydration – she still couldn’t grasp the threads of her symptoms tightly enough to weave together a diagnosis. Each conclusion she drew was worse than the one that preceded it, but none fully accounted for myriad symptoms that had plagued her since Sherlock’s fall.

“Just _tell_ me.”

“What's the best way to put this?  Well,  You see, you have … Hyp … Hippo ...”  Greg rubbed his face.  “The doctors keep telling me, but I can never get it right. How do you pronounce it, Mycroft?”

“Hyperemesis Gravidarum,” Mycroft replied coolly.

Joanna’s eyes shot open and fixed on Mycroft’s haughty smile.  If the heart monitor had still been beeping its report aloud, it would likely have indicated a flat line.

“What?!” The ragged whisper of shock sounded as though it had been forced from her mouth. 

“Yes.  An extremely rare condition, according to your doctors; as in all things, my dear Doctor, you continue to be the exception to the rule.”

“Greg?” Joanna gripped his hand tightly and looked at him for corroboration. 

He could not ignore the shock and fear he heard in her voice.  Lestrade ran this thumb against her palm, hoping it might soothe and comfort her. This was clearly something she had not expected.  Hell, it was something _none_ of them expected. “You’re pregnant, Jo.”

“Felicitations, Doctor Watson! It’s of course unsettling that such a dangerous and intractable form of morning sickness must temper your good news, but as Detective Inspector Lestrade has indicated, you _are_ on the mend.  ” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.  “Pray tell us, though, who’s the _father_?”

A growl of anger was Greg’s only warning that all hell was about to break loose.  The Detective Inspector groaned and palmed his face in his hand.

He didn’t even try to stop her.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyperemesis Gravidarum is a very serious, and very rare, form of morning sickness. Those of you living in the UK have heard a lot about it in the last year given that Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge suffered from this condition while pregnant with little George.
> 
> I have given Joanna the most extreme case of this illness, and compounded it with a bleeding ulcer and depression just to really make things difficult for her. Whumping on a character is fun in a twisted kind of way, after all. The premise that I am working from (in her private blog in chapter one) is that initially she was physically ill due to grief, but as her depression became worse, she failed to recognise the symptoms of morning sickness for what they were. The stress of the situation also exacerbated her ulcer, leading to the bleeding that finally gets her the care she needs -- as well as the shock of her life. I ask that you don't think too poorly of Joanna that she was drinking -- and in one case over drinking -- 21-year old scotch while pregnant. She would never knowingly act so recklessly if she knew she was with child. I just made sure that she didn't know.
> 
> Again, reviews and kudos are love for this writer. Many thanks to those of you who have already commented. You make my day. You really, really do!


	4. The Straight Way Was Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Joanna have an epic row, a serial killer is loose in Notting Hill, our heroes eat something other than Chinese, Thai, or curry for lunch, and Lestrade learns a lot of Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a beast. It's beyond huge, but I couldn't find a decent place to split it, so here it is.
> 
> I still do not have a beta or a Brit-Picker (I'll talk to all interested parties), so any mistakes are purely mine.
> 
> I hope to have another chapter out in a week, but I'm having to write a commencement speech that is funny, entertaining, isn't trite, and won't put 2000 people to sleep. No pressure. What were the kids thinking about voting me for faculty speaker?!

 

 

“In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost.”

\- Dante Alighieri, _Inferno_

 

* * *

 

**August 2, 2010 – 221B Baker Street, London, England**

Sherlock cocked an ear toward the familiar sound of his flatmate’s footfalls on the stairs to 221B.  There was a slight hitch in her usually steady gait, however. Though Sherlock had largely cured the former soldier’s psychosomatic limp during their first chase through the streets and over rooftops of London, it would occasionally flare during periods of intense self-doubt.  On the whole, Dr Joanna Watson was extremely self-confident.  Her record as a soldier, a doctor, and now as a conduit for Sherlock’s own genius spoke for itself. 

Occasionally, however, her intense empathy for others, particularly her patients, overwhelmed her.  Sherlock didn’t understand such compassion himself, but he found that he was generally unsettled regarding the toll it could take on Joanna.   Based on the degree to which Joanna’s limp affected her climb up the stairs combined with the lateness of the hour – half midnight already – Sherlock was left with only one conclusion: one of her patients had died today, and Joanna was questioning whether or not she had done all she could to prevent it.

She wouldn’t want to talk about it. She rarely did, and that was fine with Sherlock because his attempts at supportive platitudes came across as hollow – which they were – and generally only served to deepen her sullen mood into outright anger. 

After a particularly acerbic row over the subject of Sherlock’s “sodding incompetent attempts at empathy” – a phrase which Joanna later regretted enough to allow him to fill the fridge with body parts and experiment to his heart’s content for an entire week – they had agreed that nothing would be said when she came home in such a humour unless she specifically brought it up.  “Just be nearby, if you would,” Joanna had asked of him, though. “I’ll work it through, but … yeah, I think it’s good to know that you’re around at the first.”

Of course he had agreed.   Joanna so rarely asked something personal of him that Sherlock wasn’t going to decline simply because the sentiment made no sense to him whatsoever.  However, in their months living together, Sherlock found himself strangely willing to push his boundaries of and tolerance for sentiment where Joanna Watson was concerned. It was confusing, to be sure. 

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Joanna said as she reached the door to their flat.  She gestured at the mess of papers that lay scattered on every available surface in the sitting room, dropped her rucksack on the floor by the sofa, and hooked her coat on its peg.  “Caught a new case, then? Hot or cold?” 

“Cold.”  Sherlock sat in his chair in front of the window but didn’t look up from the file in his hand, the very model of an agreement fulfilling flat mate.

“One helluva cold case,” she muttered, gauging the size of the paper storm that had enveloped the flat.  She picked up a crime scene photo of a dead parrot in walk-in cage that lay atop the coffee table.  She could see another photo of a desiccated human corpse crumpled in a foetal position next to a park bench on top of the table that served as Sherlock and Joanna’s shared desk, and sitting on the seat of her desk chair a third picture of – what the hell?

“Sherlock, what do a dead parrot, a mummified corpse, and a ham and cheese sarnie have in common?”

“It’s not the lead into a pub joke, Joanna,” Sherlock sighed, gesturing with the file in irritation.  “Three separate cases.”

Joanna rolled her eyes and dropped the photo of the parrot back to coffee table.  “My mistake.”

Sherlock grunted in agreement and returned to his file. He noticed that she rubbed at the pain in her hip with the heel of her hand in an attempt to loosen tight muscles that wouldn’t ease until her conscience did.  

“I thought you were in the middle of a big experiment for the Disappearing Corpse case.”  When last she had seen him, Sherlock had been fully engrossed with small strips of hardwood, dozens of test tubes, and a flask full of sulphuric acid.

“Finished it.”

“Of course you did.”  

Sherlock pulled his attention from the file and opened his mouth to launch into a monologue of test results. Perhaps that would distract her.

“Tell me about it tomorrow. Long day at A&E, so I’m all in …” Joanna said waving away his words as she hobbled off, dodging still more piles of photos and files on her way to the kitchen.  

She had worked a series of double shifts that week to help out an ill colleague, and had one more to go.  It had been two months since she worked in hospital as much as she had done, and though Sherlock knew she was grateful for the increase to her income, he longed for her to finish up so that she could join him on cases again. There hadn’t been many to be sure, hence the cold cases from the Yard to help Sherlock maintain some semblance of sanity until the next serial killer made his presence known, but he had missed his blogger at his side when he _had_ been called out to a crime scene. 

Joanna did look exhausted, however. Wisps of long hair had escaped from the usually tidy French braid she wore most days when working in University College Hospital’s A&E, and she hadn’t bothered to change out of the dark blue surgical scrubs, clothing that laid out for Sherlock the narrative of Joanna’s day. 

The fiberglass filaments that clung to the edge of her sleeve spoke of two … no three broken limbs – two legs and one arm (compound fracture) – one case of severe food poisoning, judging by the splatter of sick on the toes of her medical clogs; two victims of automobile accidents, one the fatality he saw reflected in her gait; three heart attacks, all resting comfortably; one stroke, also out of danger; and something untoward involving a small rodent, a bottle of personal lubricant, and … Oh. _Oh!_

Usually he found Joanna’s medical cases rather tedious and mind-numbingly boring, but Sherlock was starting to suspect that wasn’t always the case.  Such socially divergent activities might warrant …

“… So it’s just a shower, a quick bite of that steak and kidney pie Mrs Hudson made, and I’m off to –“

It wasn’t the utter destruction of the kitchen that stopped Joanna cold.  That was par for the course with every experiment Sherlock ran.  It had taken the better part of six months and countless rows, but Joanna had finally convinced him that if she ever had to clean up another one of his tests, she would do so completely heedless of the results he may have generated in the process.  Sherlock had become _much_ better at clearing things out within 24 hours of completing said experiment.

Sadly, he hadn’t reached that point with his current one, yet.  Idly, Joanna wondered if it would have mattered if he had. 

She stared at the remains of the countless types of hardwood Sherlock had used for testing, far more than had originally been on the table when she had left for work.  Each plank of wood had been labelled in chalk before shavings had been painstakingly carved from along the grain:  Hickory, White Oak, Beech, Green Ash, Black Walnut, Cherry, Hackberry, and more, but the one that drew her attention, the piece that caused her stomach to turn and her heart to ache, required no label.   

The smoking pipe sat, inverted, in the centre of the kitchen table, and the light reflecting off the glass of the test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks flickered across the irregular surface of the dark, polished, delicately carved piece.

It was not the intermittent tremor that caused Joanna’s hand to shake as she reached out to pluck the pipe from the table as the emotional core of her mind pleaded with what her rational side already knew to be true. _Please.  Please.  Please. Tell me he didn’t._

The pipe was warm in her fingers as it always was. Warm not from lit tobacco but with the memories of her grandfather guiding her tiny hands and the carving knife over the surface of the small briarwood pipe bowl as he murmured instructions and encouragements in her ear. 

_“That’s it, lass. See th’ direction of the grain there? Go wi’ it at first. Get yer bearings. Picture the cut in yer mind before y’ make it.  Beautiful. Well done, m’ wee Jo. We’ll finish this t’day, and I’ll enjoy a smoke with it before yer bedtime.  So pleased wi’ you m’ lovely girl.”_  

The carvings, a haphazard attempt at Scottish thistle and primrose, were the clearly those of an 11 year old novice who, nevertheless, had made her granda – a master carver – proud.

Joanna swallowed tightly and turned the pipe over in her hands.  Sure enough, the lip of the bowl opposite the filter bore the same deep shaving marks as did all of Sherlock’s other samples, and virgin briarwood – untouched by stain or ash or time – winked at her under the harsh florescent lights.

“Sherlock …”

No response.  Joanna returned to the sitting room where Sherlock was completely engrossed in a pair of files, eyes flitting from one set of data to the other.

Tamping down on the fury and sorrow that fought for dominance within her, Joanna plucked each of the files from Sherlock’s fingers with one hand before holding out the pipe in her other.

“Joanna!” Sherlock protested as the files hit the floor at his feet, papers scattering across the floor.  He had done as she asked and left her mood develop as she needed it to so why …

“Why?” 

“That’s what _I_ want to know,” Sherlock demanded as he tried to gather the files together again.  He sometimes struggled to follow the insanely irregular path that was Joanna’s thought processes, but he was completely at a loss now.  “Why _what_? 

“Why?!”  She tossed the pipe in his lap.  He picked it up and fingered the gouges he had left in the wood.

Oh. That. “I needed one more sample to complete the test.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. Explanation complete.

“One more … _Jesus_ , Sherlock!  You needed ‘one more sample,’” her fingers twitched the inverted commas over her head, “to complete the test, but couldn’t be arsed to go out and find another one on your own?”

“There wasn’t time to – “

“The _hell_! There wasn’t _time_?!” she raged.  Fury had clearly defeated sorrow. “Bollocks!  You just found it _easier_ to go through my things, my _personal_ things to see if there wasn’t something to use for ‘Sherlock Fun Time’.”

“ _Fun_ Time? What are you on about? It was an _experiment_! A necessary one for The Work, as you well know.” Sherlock jumped to his feet to defend his point.  Though he towered over her, Joanna stood toe to toe with him, eyes dark with a ferocity he had never seen in her.  It was a warning, but one he failed to heed. “Yes, I found what I needed, and I was able to determine that the corpse –.”

“What you found was _mine_! You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? Couldn’t be arsed to ask, either, could you? Would you even care if you had? These smoking pipes –“

“I purposefully didn’t choose the other two.” Sherlock gestured wildly in the direction of her room upstairs.  “The carvings on them are exquisite whereas this one –“

“ _This_ is the one that _matters_ , you sodding arse!” Joanna ripped the pipe from his hand and all but shoved it back in his face a second later.  “This is the _one_ –“ She pressed her hands to her face.  “He _died_ after that, Sherlock. I was safe. For the first time in years! Then he died and every – everything went to Hell again!” Joanna spun away, dishevelling her hair even more as she struggled not to tear it out in frustration and grief.   “Dear God, is there anything that _means_ something to you?” For several moments the only sound in the flat was that of her ragged breathing as she struggled to hold herself together. She would _not_ break.  She would not!

The delicate curtain behind Sherlock’s chair puffed gently from the night breeze that flowed into the flat, grabbing Joanna’s attention, and suddenly she was able to answer her own question.  Dropping the ruined pipe on the desk, Joanna grasped Sherlock’s violin where it lay in its open case on the floor next to the window, and though she held the priceless instrument reverently in both hands, she saw Sherlock’s eyes widen in concern. 

“Joanna …”

“Heavier than I’d imagined.”  Joanna’s voice was now preternaturally calm. She tested the weight and heft of the violin as her eyes ran appreciatively over the polished deep amber wood from scroll to end button.  She had never touched it before, had never been presumptuous enough to even _consider_ it, but now ...  Jo met Sherlock’s anxious gaze and plucked the strings that ran over the fingerboard as she had seen him do countless times. Their atonal sound reflected the tension that had settled in the room.   

Joanna shifted her grip on the violin so that she grasped the only the neck, holding it in her left fist as one would a cricket bat. “Fragile, though, I’d think.” She moved closer to the open window and ran the fingers of her right hand along the casement. She lifted the violin above her head. “One good swing is all it would take, yeah?”

Sherlock’s hand shot out from his side in warning. “It’s invaluable!” He seemed to be considering whether or not he would be able to reach her and stay her hand before it fell. “Don’t.”  Angry blue eyes met cautious grey across the distance. Neither moved. Neither breathed. “Please …”

Joanna closed her eyes to centre herself. “I _get_ that you don’t understand sentiment, Sherlock,” she said when she opened them again.  Lowering the instrument, she clutched it to her protectively.  “The problem is that you don’t even _try_ to.  Try and fail. Try and succeed. I don’t care, but, dear God, just _try_.  You want to learn about _everything_ else.  Why not this?” Her voice was resigned and filled with such sadness that Sherlock flinched at the sound even as she passed him the violin, pressing it into his chest.  His long fingers wrapped around it tenderly as though she had handed him a small child.

“I wouldn’t have, you know, but not because it’s a irreplaceable instrument that’s been in your family for generations.”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“I wouldn’t … _couldn’t_ have done because I know that it’s precious to **_you_**. And if you had just taken the time, thought about what you were doing when you went through my things – after _all_ the conversations and rows we’ve had about my _personal_ space – then maybe you might have asked if _that_ ,” she pointed to the pipe on the desk, “was precious to _me_.”

Sherlock tried to puzzle out her implication, brow wrinkling in confusion.  He watched mutely as Joanna walked to the door, slipped on her coat, hitched her rucksack over her shoulder, and turned toward the stairs.

Sherlock felt … something rise up in his chest. He wasn’t certain what it was, but he knew that he didn’t want her to leave.  Knew that he needed to fix this somehow. “It was an _experiment_ ,” he said, reaching out toward her.   It all made sense in his head. Why couldn’t he make her understand?

Joanna looked at him over her shoulder; eyes reddened with unshed tears.  “No, Sherlock. It was the only positive and loving memory of my childhood.” 

Sherlock stood silently in the centre of the sitting room, lost in the haze of his own emotions, as Joanna walked down the stairs, her limp more pronounced than before.  He heard the sound of her boots scuff on the steps outside 221 after she shut and locked the front door behind her, and he listened still more until her footfalls faded into the night 

A ping from his mobile pulled Sherlock from his thoughts.  Setting the violin back in its case, he pulled the device from his pocket, read the message, and threw the phone against the back of his chair.  He turned his back on the device, strode to his room, and though there was no one in the flat to hear it, slammed the door behind him. 

The text on the screen shone for a moment before fading again to black.

_Well done, indeed!  I shall wait with breathless anticipation to see just how you plan to manoeuvre your way through this emotional minefield, brother dear_ , it said.

 

**~0~**

**August 10, 2010 – Portobello Road Market, Notting Hill, London, England**

 

Eight days later, Joanna knelt beside the eviscerated body that was splayed out on the wooden floor of the back room of a small clothing shop in Portobello Road.  The room was dim – the light fixtures and electrical wiring were about as old as the vintage clothing that hung on the racks and walls – so Joanna had a small torch clamped between her teeth as she poked delicately through the viscera for the clue that she knew should be there. This was the third victim that she had examined in as many days.  Victim number five, by head count, of the Portobello Road Killer.  The Yarders had shortened it, incorrectly, to the “PBR Killer.” It was a nickname that drove Sherlock spare. 

“Portobello is one word! _One_!” Sherlock insisted, but the label held firm.

The sixth victim was currently slumped over the cash drawer in the main showroom of the shop where Sherlock was doing the same as she. They had been pulled in by the Yard when the fourth victim – Jaina Corben – was found after hours in her fruit and veg stand; Corben had been asphyxiated when a deadly fruit salad of blueberries, blackberries, kiwi fruit, and green grapes had been shoved down her oesophagus. Joanna had avoided the produce section at Tesco’s ever since.  It wasn’t as much of a challenge as it otherwise might have been because she had been ignoring Sherlock’s demands for strawberries in much the same way that she had been ignoring Sherlock altogether.

Joanna’s first night out of the flat after what she was referring to in her mind as “The Row” was spent at work where she kipped in a seldom-used doctor’s lounge off the neurosciences lab after quick nibble in the after-hours canteen and an even quicker wash in the doctors’ changing room.   She rarely made use of the facilities accorded her at UCH, figuring that her part-time status really wasn’t enough to warrant it, but that night she was able to justify it to herself with the idea that her next shift started in eight hours anyway, and with the doubles she had been pulling, no one was likely to take issue.

No one except Sherlock Holmes, that is.

He had sent her 25 text messages in the first ten hours alone.  Not a record by any means, but certainly telling.  Joanna had turned off her phone before she passed out on the hard cot in the lounge, and didn’t bother to turn it back on until just before her shift started the next morning.  The texts were innocuous enough to the casual observer, but to Joanna’s expert eye, the messages became increasing desperate as the day progressed.

 

_The results of the hardwood experiment will ensure_ _the freedom of Mr Markham and the arrest of the step-sister.  –SH_

_Lestrade is an idiot.  I had to explain the experiment results four times before he understood why Markham couldn’t possibly have murdered his cousin and stolen the body from the mortuary. – SH_

_I’m surrounded by incompetents.  Need you here to stem the tide of idiocy in which I am currently drowning. – SH_

_Lestrade now working to secure the release of Markham.  – SH_

_Where are you? -  SH_

_In the interest of scientific inquiry, I would like to discuss with you the details pertaining to your patient with the rodent complaint from yesterday.  - SH_

_Bored. – SH_

_Lestrade says he hasn’t seen you since Tuesday.  Molly, Mike, and that barista in Marylebone who makes your coffee haven’t seen you today either.  – SH_

_The administrator at UHC was distinctly unhelpful.  Do doctors have privacy rights when it comes to their schedules? – SH_

_Attempting to carbon date a piece of vertebrae I found in Regents Park the other morning. Initial findings suggest an extinct species of vole.   –SH_

_Carbon dating test abandoned.  Vertebrae consistent with the common grey mouse.  – SH_

_Disappointed. – SH_

_Mrs Hudson made orange cranberry scones.  Your favourite. – SH_

_I’m feeling ill. Apparently my tolerance for cranberries is lower than I originally thought.  That or nine scones after a three-day fast is excessive. – SH_

_I left five scones for you.  – SH_

_Surely you’re hungry.  – SH_

_Come back to the flat and eat scones.  You’ll eat, and I’ll watch.  I’m off scones for the foreseeable future. – SH_

_You turned your phone off. – SH_

_Why did you turn your phone off? – SH_

_You can’t receive my texts if your phone is off.  You realise that, yes? – SH_

_Joanna? I’d like to talk to you.  I’ll even call. – SH_

_I want to understand. – SH_

_Are you safe? Mycroft says you are, but I’m loath to trust him on this issue.  When he was 14 he lost our baby cousin, Alistair, in the East Wing of the British Museum. Clearly, Mycroft is rubbish at evaluating an individual’s personal safety. – SH_

_At least let me know that you are okay. – SH_

_Please. – SH_

 

Joanna probably would have ignored the texts altogether if not for the last three.   Sherlock never contacted his brother willingly, and to do so about _her_ meant that Sherlock was desperate. Then there was the fact that he clearly wanted to know that she was safe and unharmed; Sherlock expressing concern and empathy for another human being was cause for celebration on most days. It was the “please,” however, that did her in.  Sherlock never begged. He cajoled, yes. He flattered.  He wheedled his way into any situation he wanted to be a part of, but one thing he just didn’t say was “please.”

 

_I am fine, Sherlock.  Working.  Phone on silent.  Not off._

_Take-away for dinner? I’ll eat in spite of the scones. Orange chicken and egg rolls? – SH_

_I won’t be back tonight._

_Will you be back? - SH_

_Of course. Maybe tomorrow._

_Okay. – SH_

_No promises._

_I understand. -  SH_

_No, you don’t. That’s the problem._

_I know.   I want understand. I think. – SH_

_Fine. Just leave me alone for a bit. I’m still very angry. We’ll talk when I come back. I need to … calm down before we do._

_That will be appreciated.  I find that I increasingly dislike it when we argue.  – SH_

_We will always argue, Sherlock._

_In all probability, but that doesn’t mean it is at all enjoyable. - SH_

_Make sure you eat._

_I will … consider it. – SH_

 

She could have spent her second night out of 221B with Lestrade. He knew what Sherlock could be like and had extended Joanna an open invitation to kip in his guest room should she ever need it, but she was still riled up enough that she wasn’t willing to risk alienating even more friends. 

She and Lestrade joined one another for pints at his local when they could, and over the months had become good friends. She liked him. He was funny and told brilliant stories, but she also found Greg to be a thoughtful listener and a fabulous sounding board for all things Sherlock or not. 

So when the countless shared stories eventually made their way around to childhood histories, Joanna had confided in him just a bit of what it had been like growing up in Devonshire with her alcoholic father and brother after her granda died.  She gave him only a glimpse of Hell, but Greg hadn’t earned his rank and position with just a wink and a smile – best of a bad lot, indeed – he was more than competent at putting the clues together and in reading between the lines. He had been sympathetic and supportive enough – Hell, Joanna, call it what it is – Lestrade had been down right incensed on her behalf over what had happened decades ago, so she was pretty certain that the DI would storm over to Baker Street to read Sherlock the riot act if he knew what had happened just the other night.  That wouldn’t solve anything.  This was between Joanna and Sherlock, and it needed to stay that way.  They had to solve this themselves if they stood any chance of remaining flatmates let alone friends.

Once Joanna could think about Sherlock Holmes without wanting smother the tosser with that bloody scarf he wore all the damn time, then she could go home.

She spent the next four nights in an inexpensive hotel in Southwark. 

When Joanna finally returned to Baker Street, she found the flat empty yet surprisingly clean, which both pleased and concerned her. The lack of dishes in the sink, or even scattered about the sitting room, meant that Sherlock may have tried to keep things tidy in her absence, but the more likely reality was that he had ignored his transport altogether.

Pulling her mobile from the pocket of her jeans, she sent her first text message in four days.

 

_Orange Chicken and egg rolls for dinner?_

_I won’t be home tonight.  – SH_

Joanna supposed she deserved that, but felt her anger begin to flare, nonetheless.  Her phone pinged again. 

_Case. – SH_

Before she could ask ‘Do you need me?’ the answer appeared on her screen.

_Portobello Road Market.  Serial Killer. Follow the lights and the police tape. – SH_

 

Joanna climbed the stairs to her room and quickly changed out of the inexpensive button down and khakis she had picked up at Oxfam when she decided she would be out of Baker Street long enough to warrant a couple of changes of clothes and pulled on her favourite blue jumper and most comfortable pair of denims.  She slipped her Browning into the holster that clipped to the inside of her jeans at the small of her back and tugged the jumper over it.  A minute later she was out the door, locking it behind her as she left. After a brief stop at Speedy’s to get Sherlock something to eat – arsehole or not, his transport needed refuelling – she hailed a cab.  Once on her way to Portobello Road, Joanna pulled out her mobile 

 

_On my way._

_Good. –SH_

 

That had been three days ago, and the flatmates still had yet to resolve their issues.  The serial killings were in large part responsible for that, however.  The PBR killer was escalating, and Sherlock was completely focused on the case, which was as it should be.  That didn’t mean, however, that she was going to just roll over and pretend that nothing had happened between them.  If she did, then it was only a matter of time before they found themselves in exactly the same situation.

So while they worked on the case together, they did so separately.  It was awkward and tense, even the most obtuse of the Yarders couldn’t help but notice, but it was necessary for the consulting detective and his blogger. 

Joanna would report her finding to Sherlock in a brisk yet professional manner, but she didn’t linger to chat with him, Lestrade, or the other members of the Yard.  She feared that if she did, sooner or later Sherlock would say something that would enflame her still simmering anger, and then where would they be? Until they could talk things through, really dedicate time to the conversation, it was best that she avoid additional contact with Sherlock whenever possible.

And so Joanna was left delving through the innards of a 42-year-old shop owner with chronic eczema who had been disembowelled with steak knife and a garden trowel searching for –  Ah!  There it was. 

With a pair of tweezers, Joanna pulled out a small amber vial – not much bigger than the tip of her index finger – from behind the remains of the woman’s left kidney.  An identical vial had been found inside each of the previous victims, and within the vial, a data chip containing a digital file in which the killer maligned his victim through the use of biblical and literary texts. Anderson had missed the clues in the first three victims, and his ham-handed approach on the fourth had nearly corrupted the data file, so Sherlock had insisted that he and Joanna be the only ones to search for the digital “Easter eggs” secreted away in the victims.   

Joanna held the vial up to the light of the torch, and sure enough, she could see the shadow of the data chip inside the opaque container. She bagged the evidence and stripped off her now bloody nitrile gloves, dropping them on the drape beside the body for the Yard to dispose of when they wrapped up the crime scene. Pocketing her torch, she headed back into the main room of the shop, currently the centre of the investigation. 

Lestrade stood next to Sherlock, taking notes as the consulting detective rattled off his deductions at his normal rapid-fire pace.  Joanna took a deep breath and tried not to let her irritation toward her partner show on her face.

“Do keep up, Detective Inspector. Our killer has finally made his mistake,” Sherlock said.  As Joanna had done with her corpse, he was digging around inside the wounds of the victim: two gaping lacerations on either side of the man’s spinal cord through which various organs and intestines had been pulled to drape obscenely across his naked back.

“So what’s the mistake?” Greg asked. 

“Passion.  All his previous killings, though personal, were dispassionate, almost clinical in their precision.  This,” Sherlock gestured with the blood-stained forceps in his hand, “was vicious, fervent … out of control.  We will find him far more quickly now that he has become the victim of his own sentiment.”

“Sentiment,” Joanna scoffed.  “Not really your area.”  She immediately regretted letting her temper get the best of her. Sherlock jerked up from where he was bent over the corpse, and she was able to catch a glimpse of hurt and guilt in his eyes before they iced over with his traditional professional detachment.   

_Not really helping, Jo.  You’re even more of an arse than he is sometimes_ , she thought with a sigh.

“I’m … sorry.  Speaking without thinking, yeah?  Ignore me.” She showed Greg the evidence bag containing the vial, and explained to the pair where and how she had found it. “There’s nothing else that I can determine from the body until tests come back in.  Unless something else pops up in the blood work, CoD is exsanguination from multiple deep tissue lacerations and evisceration. Mrs Soniere was alive when he cut into her, however.  It was a very … painful death.”

Sherlock held her eyes for a long moment before he nodded and turned back to the task of finding the vial in Mr Soniere, victim number six. 

“Unless you need me here, I’ll head over to the Yard so the IT boffins can pull the data from the chip.  I’ll sort through the allusions to see if anything new pops up that might get us closer to finding this bastard.”

Sherlock grunted what sounded like assent, but stayed focused on his task.

“I’ll see you at the Yard, then, Detective Inspector.” Joanna gave Greg a brief nod and headed for the door.

“ _What_ is going on with you two,” Greg demanded of Sherlock once Joanna was out of earshot. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Lestrade.” Sherlock adjusted the angle of his torch and poked again through the jumbled puzzle of organs at the half-exposed liver, pushing it aside so as to have better access to Mr Soniere’s spleen. 

“The hell?”  Greg ran his hand through his greying hair and leaned in closely to Sherlock to whisper harshly in his ear.  “Fine. You want specifics? Try these on. You two work separately. You two arrive at crime scenes, again, separately.  Joanna hardly speaks to you, and when she does, she’s barely able to keep it civil which then causes you to look like a puppy that’s been kicked in the arse one too many times.” Sherlock glanced at the DI, unconcealed exasperation in his eyes at being compared to a puppy, but quickly resumed his examination.  “It’s been going on since I brought you on the case, yet neither of you seem willing to relent. I’ve never known either of you to hold a grudge against the other for more than a day, so I ask again, what is going on with you two?”

“Before.”

“Before what?” 

“Our row.  That’s what you’re on about, isn’t it?  It happened _before_ you called us in. Nine days ago to be precise.” Sherlock grasped a piece of lower intestine with his forceps and shone the torch light on it from beneath.  Still nothing 

“Nine days … _Jesus_ , Sherlock.  What happened?”

Not ‘what did you do’ or ‘how’d you cock it up, now, Sherlock?’ but ‘what happened.’  Lestrade was remaining neutral. 

Buoyed by the DI’s – incorrect – assumption that he was not wholly at fault for once, Sherlock told him. He recited, verbatim, the details of his and Joanna’s row for the Detective Inspector as he continued searching the corpse for the container that had been secreted away somewhere amidst the detritus of flesh.

There it was!  Tucked within the lower lobe of the left lung.  Sherlock pulled the ampoule from its cubby and dropped it into an evidence bag as he finished up his tale. He stood and turned to face a stunned Lestrade.

“Why do you have that look on your face?” he asked.

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, clearly frustrated. Sherlock opened his mouth to forestall the rebuke he knew was coming. Of course it was coming.  He had been admonishing himself all week, after all.  Why would Lestrade be any different?

It didn’t come. 

“Sherlock, have you ever talked with Jo about her childhood?  About what happened when her grandfather died, and she was sent back to live with her father?”

“Joanna has insisted that I stop deducing her –“ 

“No, Sherlock.  I mean have you _talked_ with her? Not deduced it. Had an actual conversation.”

“We have not. Her mother died when she was a child, and I gathered that her subsequent experiences were largely unpleasant, but what would be gained by such an intrusion into her life?”

“Sher … my God man.  Everything!  There’s _everything_ to be gained from it. You’re her _friend_.  And when have you ever cared about intruding into a person's life.  It's what you _do_ for a living!”

“Joanna's not a case, Lestrade.  You know that I’m not good with … with _people_.” 

“She’s been your bloody flat mate for nearly 10 months. You let her into your life in a way I’ve never seen you do before, and you’re all the better for it, but you’ll never get anywhere else if you don’t at least try, mate.  In fact, if you’re not bloody well careful, you might lose her altogether.  Look, Jo didn’t tell me much, and what she did isn’t mine to share, but I know that she means a lot to you.  Surely Jo’s worth the anxiety, yeah?”

Sherlock fidgeted with the bag in his hand, embarrassed and uncertain as he always was when forced to face that with which his genius provided no succour, and he was pretty sure that this _particular_ conversation shouldn’t be held at a crime scene of all places, but there seemed to be nothing for it.

“More than. ..”  Sherlock coughed to clear his throat that was suddenly quite dry. “More than most,” he admitted at last. 

“Then _talk_ to her.  Take this opportunity, Sherlock. Grab hold of the possibilities. Jo has little reason to trust anyone, and she’s made it this far in her life by being very particular about who she lets in, but it’s been clear for a long while that she trusts _you,_ utterly.  Even when you’re being a clueless arse of a prick.” 

Sherlock was about to reply to Lestrade’s observations when their attention was grabbed by an altercation at the front door to the shop.

“What the – Donovan?  Jo? What in the bloody hell is going on?” Lestrade demanded and circled around the register table to confront his sergeant and the doctor. 

Joanna tucked the evidence bag containing the vial into the inside pocket of her jacket as Constable Chadha informed her about the panda car outside the blue tape that would take Jo to the Yard. She nodded her thanks to the young woman, but as Jo was about pass through to the street, she was stopped by a snippy comment from her left. 

“Trouble in paradise, I see.”

_Seriously?_ Jo sent her eyes heavenward. _Could the week get any better?_

“Sergeant Donovan.”  Joanna greeted the irritable investigator with as much affability as she could manage, which for once was quite little – Jo was usually sociable after all – but the other woman failed to hear the tightness in the greeting, and instead seemed to take it as permission to continue speaking.

“Took longer than I thought it would for the blush to come off the rose, but based on your behaviour the last few days, it seems that the true Sherlock has finally shown his spots.”  Donovan crossed her arms over her chest as she always did when she was about to deliver a lecture that was completely intrusive and unwarranted.

“I don’t see where it is any of your business, Sergeant,” Joanna replied, distantly.  _Would it really be too much to ask for the woman to pick one metaphor and stick with it?_

“When it compromises the integrity of this murder investigation, it becomes my business.” Donovan tucked her notepad into the pocket of her rain slicker, and from the arch of her brow seemed to be demanding an accounting. 

“What?”  Joanna couldn’t believe what spilling from the other woman’s mouth. She crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw defiantly.  “Just how have Sherlock and I compromised the integrity of this investigation?”

“The tension you two have created make it impossible to –" 

Joanna cut her off with a wave of her hand. “No.  I want details, not vague generalities.  How _specifically_ have Sherlock or I compromised this investigation?  Do you question our forensic analysis of the bodies?”

“No, I –“

“Then perhaps it’s the manner in which we find and collect evidence? But then that would mean the Yard still wouldn’t know about the messages in a bottle that the killer’s been secreting away, leaving you with even less to go on than you had before we were brought in. Sherlock’s deductions, then? No.  You’ve always brushed those away rather than take them for the genius they are, but I can’t say I expect more than that from you anyway.”  

Donovan gaped, her open mouth undulating like a fish struggling to pull a breath from the air rather than the water. 

“If there’s nothing else, Sergeant. I’ll be on my way. I have _your_ work to do.” 

Donovan grabbed Joanna’s arm as she turned for the door.  Jo tensed. She thought she heard Lestrade shout at them, but she wasn’t certain because Donovan continued speaking. 

“Look, Jo.  I’m just trying to give you a bit of friendly advice.  Same as I did all those months ago.  Sherlock’s trouble, and I think you’re now seeing a bit of that –“ 

Joanna snorted her derision and smiled, but it was not a smile of appreciation or good humour.  It was tight, strained, and didn’t reach her eyes which were now cold and emotionless.  It was the smile she wore while trying to decide whether to punch or shoot her enemy first. 

“Friends?  Is that what we are now?” she said with such affected tranquillity that even Sherlock winced.  “You planning to have me over for a pint so we can chat about boys and the latest hot clothes at the shops?  Or maybe we’ll braid each other’s hair while you urge me to go on about the Hell you seem to think living with Sherlock Holmes is like?” 

“No, I just mean that – “ 

“We are _not_ friends, Sally Donovan.  I knew what you were 30 seconds after I met you in Brixton.  _Sherlock_ is my friend, the best I’ve ever had, and you’d do well to remember that.” Joanna finally looked down at where the sergeant had tightened her grip on Joanna’s arm, pulling her closer to plead her case.  

“There’s one more thing you should remember …” Joanna finished.  Before Donovan could ask the question, Jo had spun her arm out of the police sergeant’s grip, forced Sally’s hand and arm up behind her back, and drove her face-first into the wall next to the front door.

“Do not _ever_ touch me like that again,” she breathed in Donovan’s ear. “If you do, you’ll find yourself in A &E faster than you can sodding blink, and _I’ll_ be the one who put you there, _not_ Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Umm … everything alright, ladies?” Greg asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.  He knew better than to get in the middle of two women fighting without a complete tactical team for backup, but this was his crime scene, after all. 

Joanna flicked her gaze toward Greg and saw Sherlock standing right behind him.   The corner of his mouth was tilted slightly in an expression akin to wonder, as though he was a child who had just seen snow fall for the first time. 

“Just fine, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sergeant Donovan and I were having a little discussion about boundaries.  She seems to think they aren’t needed whereas I am certain they are.” Joanna gave Donovan’s arm another twitch upward to reinforce her point before letting her go. Donovan slumped into the wall as Jo nodded her farewell to Greg and Sherlock and left the shop without a second glance. 

The silence in the shop was overwhelming as everyone absorbed the incident.  Crime scene technicians weren’t quite sure where to look, Constable Chadha – who didn’t like the sergeant anyway – was largely successful in hiding her grin, but it finally took Anderson, whose eyebrows looked as if they were ready to take up permanent residence in his hairline, to break the tension. 

“What the hell?!  I thought Watson was supposed to be the _normal_ one!”

“Thinking again, Anderson?  That was your first mistake,” Sherlock bit out, before turning around to grab his tools where they lay on the counter next to the body. “Your second error was in underestimating Joanna Watson.  Given the right motivation, she could be even more dangerous than I. The key difference is that she has a generally high regard for humanity whereas I do not.” 

“High regard?!”  Donovan shouted.  “That daft bitch bloody near tore my arm out of its socket!”  She rolled her arm and shoulder about in their respective joints in an attempt to soothe the pain Joanna had inflicted. 

“I did say ‘generally,’ didn’t I? I’m quite sure that I did.”

“You did, Mr Holmes,” supplied Constable Chadha, helpfully.  Both Donovan and Anderson shot the young woman looks of pure venom for they knew she had also heard the entire conversation between Sally and Joanna, but Chadra smiled benignly in response. 

“I’m having her arrested.” Donovan unclipped her radio from her belt and brought it to her mouth.  “Constable Simons, take Doctor Watson into custody when she –“ 

Lestrade grabbed the radio out of his sergeant’s hand. “Belay that, Simons,” Lestrade said into the device.  He looked over at Sherlock for a moment before continuing, ”but don’t head back with her to the Yard just yet.” 

“Everything okay there, sir?” Simons’ voice crackled through the device, but his confusion was clear. 

“Everything’s fine.  Just wait a mo’, Tim.”  Lestrade ran his hand through his hair in frustration and glared at Donovan. 

“You’re _not_ having Joanna Watson arrested, Sally.  End of story.  If anything, you should count yourself lucky if Jo doesn’t file a complaint against _you_.  You touched her first, and it was completely unwarranted.  Dr Watson – a respected doctor and forensics consultant who was invited to assist us in this investigation – had to defend herself from a physical assault by a member of the Metropolitan Police under _my_ command?!  How do you think that would play out with the Chief Superintendent, Sergeant Donovan?” 

“Respected doctor?  Invited?  The woman’s clearly lost it, Lestrade.   Spending so much time with _that_ mad bastard’s corrupted her,” scoffed Anderson.  “She’s as bad as – ” Sherlock was at the spiteful man’s side a heartbeat later, glaring down at him with icy grey eyes. 

“Choose your next words carefully, Anderson. I care not a whit what you say about or to me, but think twice before you malign Joanna Watson’s qualifications or skills for though they come nowhere near to the level of my own, they exceed yours a hundred fold.”

Anderson tried to take a step backwards, to move out of the range of Sherlock’s acid tongue, but found he was already pressed up again the wall.

“Sherlock?”  The consulting detective cocked his head toward the sound of the DI’s voice, but he did not pull his gaze from Anderson’s.  “Anything else to do here? Or do you have what you need?” 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade over his shoulder and answered. “Now that we have the second data chip, there’s nothing else to be had. You already have my deductions on the how and why of it.”  

“Then head to the Yard with Jo, yeah? Simons’ is waiting. I know you hate riding in a panda, but it’ll be faster, and every minute counts on this.”   

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in a way that suggested to Lestrade that though he was seriously annoyed at the suggestion, he would, nonetheless, consent.  The DI watched Sherlock tuck the evidence bag containing the vial into the inside pocket of his great coat, and with a curt nod walked out of the shop.

“Sherlock’s comin’ out, Simons,” Lestrade said into the walkie.  “Make sure you get him and Watson to the IT guys.”

“On it, sir,” crackled the reply.

Lestrade turned to face Donovan and Anderson. “Now, before we finish up here, the three of us are going to have a little chat about what kind of behaviour I expect from my team at a bloody crime scene!" 

Sherlock approached the police car at the Westbourne Grove end of the crime scene and saw that the front passenger side was vacant. Joanna had chosen to sit in the back of the car, leaving free the seat that would make Sherlock the least uncomfortable – physically and psychologically – during the 20-minute drive to the Yard. 

Constable Simons opened the door for him, but Sherlock shook him off, instead grabbing hold of the handle of the rear door and folding his tall frame into the backseat beside Joanna.

The young officer popped into the driver’s seat and within moments, they were off.  

The late evening scenery of Notting Hill blurred past them, but Sherlock saw none of it, choosing instead to focus his attention on the woman at his side. Dark circles had formed under her eyes seemingly overnight, and her skin was sallow rather than its standard brushed gold. Typically she was able to catch a few minutes sleep here or there during a long running case. She had an uncanny ability – honed during her years in the Army – to fall into a deep sleep within moments of settling down for a nap and waken relatively refreshed 20 to 30 minutes later, or whenever Sherlock was ready to get on the move again.  It wasn’t uncommon, in fact, for her to nap in the back of a cab, head resting against the window, or occasionally on his shoulder, while they rode through the streets of London, moving ever closer to the resolution of the case at hand. 

She did not nap tonight, and looked as tired as he felt. 

Normally at this point in an investigation, when he was within a few clues of unveiling the killer, Sherlock was riding high on the adrenaline of the case, and though he felt the zing of anticipation, he was unable to tap into it to restore his flagging reserves of energy. He felt hollow and for the life of him, could not determine why.

“I left the passenger seat for you, you know,” Joanna said as Simons turned the car south onto Kensington Park Road, she continued to stare out the window, the glare of street lamps casting a pale glow on her face as they drove through light and shadow. 

“I know.  Thank you.”  He could see her lips tense in the half-light of the car.

“Nothing’s _ever_ easy with you, is it?”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’ with his lips. 

Her pursed lips twitched upward, and Sherlock held his breath. 

It was several moments before she spoke again. “But it’s not really intentional, is it?” 

“Sometimes, it’s _very_ intentional.  Calculated even. Certainly is for the likes of Donovan and Anderson.”  Sherlock turned his attention to the window and picked at the corner of a safety sticker on the glass. 

“And me?”  She sounded hesitant.  The fingers of her right hand clenched rhythmically on the seat of the cab. 

Sherlock thought for a long moment before he replied. “No.  Not with you.  With you, it just …” 

Joanna turned from the window and looked at him as she finished his thought, “… sort of happens.”

“Something like that,” Sherlock admitted with an unapologetic shrug.  He dropped his eyes to study his other hand where it lay on the seat between them. He wondered what she would do if he just reached out and – Joanna’s hand was suddenly on his, twining their fingers together.  She rubbed the pad of her thumb against the side of his hand, and Sherlock felt something loosen in his chest that, until that moment, he had not realised had grown so unbearably tight. 

He looked up, but Joanna had turned her attention back to the scenery of Bayswater.  

“This isn’t over, you know,” she said softly. 

“We need to … talk.” Sherlock didn’t even attempt to disguise his discomfort with the idea. Joanna would see right through it anyway. The talk would most certainly deal with feelings, and he’d be out of his element throughout, but Lestrade was right. He had to try. 

“When the case is done.” 

“Yes,” he agreed. 

Joanna squeezed his hand, and did not let go. 

Sherlock let his hand be held, and clung to hers for dear life.

  

**August 12, 2010 – London, England**

 

 

Two days later, Sherlock found himself casually surveying the controlled chaos that played out before him. The grunts and screams of combat that echoed off rough concrete and exposed timber walls were punctuated by the slap and thud of flesh connecting with soft tissue and bone. The musty smell of sweat and coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the room despite the large industrial fans that tried to stir the air to freshness.  

Six pairs of opponents – their hands wrapped tightly, protective head gear strapped into place – sparred with one another on various mats placed strategically throughout the large _muay thai_ gym that had been tucked away in a renovated series of shops off Devonshire Close.  It was clear from their form and lack of fluidity that all but one of the pairs were novices with little more than a month’s training behind them. The sixth pair was of moderate skill, but of the two, only the woman – 22 years old, single, nursing student, surgically corrected scoliosis at age 13, lactose intolerant – would likely continue in the sport beyond the end of the year. 

All of this Sherlock assessed in the span 17.4 seconds before dismissing it from his mind.  He was far more interested in the small, single fighter in the centre of the room skilfully fending off her trio of attackers.  The first two were dispatched in short order with a series of rapid fire cross and jab punches each of which were followed up with quick elbow strikes to the face.  Finally realising how outmatched they were, the two younger attackers bowed out as the third – a tree of a man with more muscles than mental acuity – struck from behind, knocking the legs out from under his victim who leapt up and spun away just in time to evade what would have been a vicious foot thrust to the abdomen. The foes launched themselves at one another, grasping and grappling at one another until the smaller of the two grabbed the other in a low clinch before spinning beneath and behind the him and executing a solid roundhouse kick to her opponent’s back.  The pair were evenly matched in spite of the size difference, and were dancing in close to one another again – 

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock turned his attention away from a skilful sequence of swing punches to the man standing next to him. “Have we met?” Sherlock asked as he observed the dark-skinned man: forty-two year old former Royal Marine (three tours), gunshot wounds to the upper left thigh and left abdomen; not invalided out, retired; 20 per cent hearing loss right ear (didn’t always wear protective earplugs when on or around helicopters); mixed martial arts expert specializing in _muay thai_ ; widower; one son; three hamsters and a goldfish.

“Not once,” the man said with a smile. He jerked his chin toward the pair Sherlock had been observing.  “Heard all ‘bout you from Doc, though.  Coat alone told me who you were minute you walked in.  Calvin Reese.”  Reese held out his hand. 

Sherlock took it in his glove-clad one and shook firmly. “ _Kru_ Reese,” he said with a polite nod and hoped that Joanna would be pleased for she had spoken highly of her instructor these last months. 

“Just Reese.  You’re not my student, so it’s all fine.”  He brushed off the honorific, and they turned back to watch Joanna spar with her opponent. 

“Not exactly traditional _muay thai_ , is it?”  Sherlock detected elements of Brazilian jujitsu, kickboxing, and even street fighting in Joanna Watson’s moves.

“Not for Doc.  Most ‘o that she came in with courtesy of the Army.  She’s bloody good, though.  ‘Specially for her size.  Keep tryin’ to convince her to go traditional and compete. She’d clean up in competition, but keeps sayin’ that’s not why she’s doin’ this,” Reese’s sigh was affected rather than truly dismayed.  “Has this mad genius of a flat mate that she has to keep from gettin’ killed by criminals and psychopaths all the time, apparently.  Wouldn’t know ‘im, would you?”

“I may have a passing acquaintance with the man,” Sherlock said with a genuine chuckle, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat.  Reese was mildly interesting – if only because Joanna had deemed him worthy – but he was a genial enough person. “You served with Joanna in Afghanistan.” 

“Just a bit here and there.  Knew her more by reputation, than anythin’. Brilliant doctor and a bloody good soldier, Doc Watson is.  Saved a couple of mates of mine in Sangin.”

“The front lines?” Sherlock was surprised. Mycroft had offered his brother Joanna’s service record, but Sherlock had declined, preferring to observe and deduce it for himself.  Of course she had seen combat – she invalided home from a sniper’s bullet, after all – but even Sherlock, who largely eschewed anything having to do with the war unless it directly pertained to a case, knew that the Sangin District in Helmand Province was one of the most dangerous locations in a country full of dangerous locations. Clearly he had missed something.  He hated that. 

“ _Officially_? No.  But enemy fire doesn’t discriminate gender.” Reese leaned his forearms against the low wall that separated the gym from the observation area and gestured to the doctor who was still sparring with The Tree. “She’d been on patrol when the unit my mates were in took heavy fire a couple of klicks away.  Her boys kept the enemy pinned down while she and Murray – that’s her nurse; bloody good sod, that man! – pulled Geoff and Mick out by their bootstraps as I hear it. She literally kept Mick from bleeding out by keepin’ her finger shoved down the bullet hole in ‘is neck until they evaced back to Bastion and got ‘im into surgery.”

“He survived.”  An obvious deduction considering the reverence with which Reese spoke about Joanna’s work. 

The _Kru_ nodded.  “Invalided out, o’course, but he’s alive and living with the wife and a beautiful baby girl buildin’ motorbikes at his Da’s shop in Cardiff.  Oi!  Jenkins,” he shouted out to the man in the centre of the gym who had just hit the mat with a heavy thud, Joanna dancing about on the balls of her feet awaiting the next attack. “I’d just stay down, mate. Doc’ll just keep kickin’ yer arse til ya have to haul it home in yer duffle.” 

The Tree – Jenkins – acknowledged Reese’s advice with a wave, and dropped his head to the mat with a groan for a moment before slowly getting up to bump Joanna’s wrapped fist with his in appreciation for a good workout.  

Joanna tugged her head gear off and jogged over to the observation area where Reese immediately took hold of her hands to remove each padded glove. 

“Everything okay?  New case?” she asked Sherlock.  Her hair was a damp mess, clinging wildly to her chin and neck. Her skin was flushed and her dark blue eyes bright with exertion just as they were last night as they had pelted through the alleyways of Notting Hill, chasing after their serial killer, Jamison O’Hearn.  Sherlock wasn’t sure why he catalogued all the details about her appearance that he did, but they had their own separate room in the wing of his Mind Palace that classified all things Joanna Watson.

“No new case, and everything is fine. As you have, I’ve given my statement about the events of last evening and completed Lestrade’s tedious paperwork. It was all horribly dull, but –"

“But it’s officially over,” Joanna said softly. Reese held out the gloves, and she took the proffered gear, nodding a distracted thank you to the instructor as he took his leave and went to check on his other students.

“O’Hearn’s remains will be released to his family, if they want them,” Sherlock said.  “Though there is talk of preserving his brain for study.  Apparently some physicians at Bart’s are in the initial stages of a new study on the possible links between schizophrenia, dissociative personality disorder, and sociopathic tendencies.  I’m quite interested in –“

“Sherlock,” Jo interrupted.  “The _case_ …”

“Ah … well, Jennifer Pahra continues to improve in hospital.  Lestrade mentioned that she is expected to make a full recovery in spite of losing most of her left ear. Apparently a cousin will keep her antiquities store until she is able to work again, and her daughter is currently staying with other relatives.  All details that I really didn’t need or care to know, but I assured Lestrade that I would tell you. He said you would want to know. So, yes, the case of the PBR Killer has come to a close.”

“That’s good.  Yeah.  Good.” Joanna nodded. It had been a horrible case. She rubbed at the bandage on her forearm that covered the knife wound that she had received from O’Hearn after Sherlock and she had cornered him in an alleyway.  She had been cut as she wrestled the knife away from the man, but as they grappled with the maniac and tried to force him to the ground, they failed to notice a pile of rebar amidst the construction debris in the alley. When Jo managed to hook her leg around O’Hearn’s ankle and yank his feet out from under him, the PBR Killer fell backwards onto the rebar, which lanced through his heart and out the front of his chest.  It had been awful, but Joanna couldn’t bring herself to feel any remorse for the man.  She had long since accepted that fate and justice walked hand in hand more often than most people cared to think about. 

She shook herself free of the memory and looked up at Sherlock who had fallen strangely silent during her introspection. “S-so why are you here?” 

Sherlock shifted awkwardly and took a deep breath to steel himself.  _And now for the “feelings” portion of our programme._   

“We usually share a meal at the conclusion of a case.” He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.  “There’s a small _fromagerie_ not far from here. A change of pace from our usual fare. I thought we would arrange for take-away and enjoy a late lunch at home so that we might …” he swallowed, “… talk.” 

This was an occasion.  Sherlock largely remained taciturn whenever emotions came into play, so that he would willingly engage in such a discussion let alone initiate it surprised Joanna.  However, Sherlock never did anything he didn’t want to, so she wasn’t about to argue the point. 

“Give me 15 minutes to get cleaned up, yeah?” she said at last.

“Of course.”  He nodded.  “I’ll just wait for you outside, then.” 

“Back in a mo’,” Joanna said with a slight smile, and then she jogged back to the changing room to grab a quick shower before changing into her street clothes.

 

**~0~**

 

Forty minutes later, Sherlock and Joanna were ensconced in their kitchen.  Sherlock had relocated his scientific flotsam and jetsam to other parts of the flat, and they had pulled out the nicer plates and flatware for once.  On the table between them sat a shared a ploughman’s lunch and a small roast beef terrine.  Sherlock nibbled at pieces of ham, bits of pickled onions, and freshly baked bread with butter while sipping a glass of _La Dame Russe_. Joanna did the same, occasionally smearing a piece of toasted baguette with the terrine.  It was the first decent meal either of them had eaten in days. The food sat comfortably in her stomach, and the flush of the wine slid smoothly through her veins.  

“How is your arm?” Sherlock asked, reaching across the table to brush a finger against the bandage that peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her pale pink jumper.   

“It’s fine.  Not much more than a scratch, really.  Hurt like bloody hell last night, but it’s fine.” She didn’t jump at his touch – casual touching had been part of their friendship since early days – but if her heart beat a bit faster at the contact than it used to have done, Joanna did her best to ignore it.  She was still angry with him, after all, wasn’t shea?

“And the other?”  Though the knit fabric now covered the bruises Donovan’s had left behind on Joanna’s forearm, he had seen their vivid pattern on her skin in the gym.  The thought of Joanna being injured always troubled him, but the knowledge that Donovan, of all people, had manhandled his blogger in such a way had nearly sent Sherlock spare. 

“It’s all fine, Sherlock,” Joanna assured him. She took another sip of her wine, and snagged a piece of the mellow, rich cheese from the platter. “Of the two, I’m pretty sure that it will be _my_ point that sticks longer with her rather than the other way around.”  She gestured with her bruised arm.  “This is just transport, after all, right?” 

“But you apologized to _her_. Last night in the alley. To Lestrade, too.” After Joanna had finished giving Lestrade her preliminary statement, and expressed her regret for her behaviour at the previous crime scene, she had pulled Donovan aside to talk. Sherlock hadn’t been able to hear the words, but their body language had been telling. Joanna’s gestures had been remorseful; Sally’s unsympathetic and hostile.  

“I did.” 

“Why?”  Sherlock rarely, _very_ rarely, felt the need to apologize.  He said what he knew to be true, back up his claims with factual – or at the very least, anecdotal – evidence, and if people weren’t able to handle the truth, more’s the pity. It wasn’t his problem.

Joanna’s sigh was not one of irritation but of contemplation as she tried to figure out how best to explain her reasons to Sherlock. “I think we agree that Donovan’s a right bitch, yeah?  But _I_ don’t have to be. I let my temper get out of control at the scene – " 

“Because you were angry with _me_ ,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Partly, but I was more angry with myself. Anyway, I never should have gotten physical with her even though she had done with me.  Donovan can take care of herself under typical circumstances, the Met’s trained her well enough, but my training isn’t just about defending myself, it’s about – “ 

“Killing when it’s called for.”

Joanna took a thoughtful sip from her wine glass. “Something like that, yeah. Most people – Lestrade, Donovan, Mike, and the like – don’t see past the short doctor in the cuddly jumpers with the warm smile.  They forget about the soldier, which means they don’t see the other side of me. I’m okay with that, but the killer I became out of necessity in Afghanistan is still with me, Sherlock. She’s in here,” Joanna tapped her chest with her index finger, “ready to kill again if it’s necessary to keep you safe; a bit of her popped out the other night, though, and that wasn’t okay.” 

“But do you think she’s correct? Donovan, I mean. About me.” Sherlock bent his head and focused on his meal.  “I’m not … an easy person to know.  Living with me must be a nightmare.” 

From the corner of his eye, he could see the fingers of her right hand that curled around the stem of her wine glass. They had been caressing the narrow stalk, but as he spoke, they stilled.  Unable to look at her, Sherlock toyed with his bread, tearing it into small bits that fell to his plate.

“Sherlock?” 

He hummed in response. 

“Look at me, please.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes and met her gaze directly, but the sight that greeted him nearly drew the breath from his lungs. The sadness he saw on her face was just as intense as it had been the night of their row, but there was something else there, something … brighter that had nothing to do with her but everything to do with him.  He dared not name it. 

“I meant what I said to Donovan. You are the best friend I have ever had.”

The “but” hung in the air between them. Joanna reached out and took his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over the back as she had done in the cab the other night. 

“No. It’s not always easy living with you, but it’s far from a nightmare.  I’m not going to harp on the things we’ve talked about before.  Granted, I’d give my eyeteeth for you to wash a dish or go to the shops every once in awhile, but I’ve accepted that’s not going to happen. God knows I’m far from sunshine and light to live with.  My temper alone … you’d have been right to toss me out on my arse months ago, but you didn’t. You accepted me as I am, even made me a bit better,” she gestured at her left leg, “and I’m sorry that I haven’t worked harder to do the same for you.  You deserve better from me.”

She took a sip of her wine before continuing; Sherlock, strangely, seemed to hang on her every word.  She knew he was internalizing it.  Saving it on his hard-drive for later access and analysis. “You make some reckless choices.  Things that put the both of us in jeopardy – Moriarty’s a prime example – but that’s what I signed up for, yeah?  I knew what I was getting into that very first night, and I chose you and The Work anyway. If I weren’t up for the challenge, I’d have left straight away after the pool.  You can be thoughtless and insensitive, but never because you’re being deliberately cruel to me.” 

The days she had been gone had been hellish. She had missed Sherlock more than she ever expected.  Joanna had come to need his sulking, his madness, his genius, and his child-like naiveté like she needed a roof over her head and a cup of hot tea in her hand. Sherlock was home, and comfort, and belonging, and all the things Joanna feared she’d never know again after she was shot and left an invalid, adrift without direction or purpose.   

She had missed Sherlock’s voice, deep and sonorous, when he demanded tea or her attention for something or other.   She had missed his owlish blink from behind his safety glasses.  The swish of his dressing gown when he tore around the flat trying to put the pieces of a case together, the fastidious way in which he organized his bedroom but never the rest of the flat, his smile – genuine and fond – whenever Joanna said something he found particularly clever, all these were the things she had missed. 

She should have gone back that second night, but pure Watson stubbornness and pride had kept her away.    

“I hurt you, though,” Sherlock said, settling back in his chair, pulling his hand from hers.

“You did.  Very much, but again not deliberately.  I think I hurt you more than you hurt me.  I knew you didn’t understand the sentiment attached to my granda’s pipe, yet I blamed you anyway. That wasn’t fair.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why are you apologizing to me?” 

“Because I was a complete arse! So were you – don’t think I’ve forgotten about that – but I should have taken the time to explain it to you, even though there was nothing for it.  Instead, I let my temper and the stress of the day get to me, and I scuttled off in a sulk and left you worrying for five bloody days.”

“I wasn’t worried.”  Sherlock deflected.

Joanna chuckled and gestured to her mobile that sat on the table next to her hand.  “I have about 50 text messages that would say otherwise, Mr Holmes. Besides, I saw the look on your face when I walked into the Corben crime scene, and we both know what it was.” 

“It’s _my_ face,” Sherlock said with a touch of indignation. “Of course it had a look.”

Joanna rolled her eyes.  The exasperated ‘ _please’_ was implied.  “Then tell me. Was I wrong to come back?”

Sherlock shifted in his chair, sipped his wine, and looked everywhere but at the strangely neutral expression on Joanna’s face. The mould experiment on top of the casement of the kitchen window seemed to be progressing.  He wondered if the ones he had stashed down in 221C were faring as well.

“Sherlock?” Joanna prompted, drawing his attention back to the situation – uh, feelings! – at hand. 

If he levelled with himself, the days she had been out of the flat had been the longest of Sherlock’s life. He had attempted to bury his anxiety in experiments and cold cases, but nothing had worked. Certainly not the snide texts from Mycroft. Nothing had filled the emptiness Sherlock felt every time he thought of her.  He began to despair of her return, and Sherlock had _hated_ how that made him feel.  

He had always been self-sufficient, independent, and aloof, yet somehow this mere slip of a woman had insinuated herself into the very fabric of his life, and he couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way. And when Sherlock saw her walk under the crime scene tape at the fruit and veg stand wearing that silly blue jumper and her hair pulled back in a pony tail, looking far more lovely than she had any right to do, it took every bit of self-discipline he had to not step over the cold corpse at his feet, clasp his friend to him, and leave the scene and the Yarders behind.  A very primal reaction, and one that he was still puzzling over days later.

“At the risk of repeating myself, I don’t like it when we argue, at least not like we did the other night. Some of our arguments are quite beneficial in that they allow me to process certain ideas and generally lead me to a new understanding in addition to allowing _you_ to blow off some steam, but it wasn’t that kind of row the other night.” 

Sherlock poked at the remains of his lunch with his fork then tossed it on his plate.  He jumped to his feet and began pacing the small room.

“Lestrade said that I am better for having you in my life,” Sherlock continued.  He alternated between gesticulating wildly and rubbing at the back of his neck in that way that Joanna knew meant he was putting the pieces of a puzzle together. “And as much as I am loathe to agree with the man on any subject outside of a crime scene, I find that for once I cannot dispute his deduction. You didn’t just move into the flat ten months ago, you moved into my life, into my head, and brought with you a mess of complicated emotions that make me feel like I am running on ice because I can’t begin to understand or categorize them let alone adequately express them.” 

The man seemed to be winding himself up into full “Sherlock” mode, and Joanna began to get the distinct impression that he had forgotten she was even in the room.  “Do I need to be here for this conversation with yourself, or is this a matter of ‘genius needing an audience?’” 

Sherlock stopped abruptly next to her chair. “ _Nevertheless_ ,” he said pointedly, looking down at her, “the thought of you leaving permanently is quite simply intolerable, and if that means that I have to learn to do better … to _be_ better, then I will.” 

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me without making mention of a dead body, an experiment, or your brother.” Her smile was incandescent; Sherlock felt the warmth of it and smiled shyly.  

He coughed.  “Yes, well.  Don’t expect me to make a habit of it.  A bit rubbish at all this ‘talking about feelings’ business.  No wonder you hated therapy as much as you did.  It’s left a rather peculiar tang in my mouth, actually.” 

“I thought it wasn’t at all bad for your first go, but some mouthwash might help with the aftertaste.”  

He glared at her. 

“Oh!  I have something for you.”  Sherlock popped back into the sitting room where Joanna could hear him rustling about in the pockets of his Belstaff.  He then made a quick detour through the kitchen door off the landing to his room where the rustling continued.  When Sherlock returned, he sat down at the end of the table next to Joanna rather than across from her. He set a blue silk pouch next to her plate. “Please, open it,” he said at her hesitant look. 

Joanna pulled at the small bow that kept the contents of the pouch secure.  Inside lay a second bag, this one made of thin leather wrapped shut with narrow cord. It was extremely light and whatever was inside crunched a little as she unwound the cord.  Joanna was immediately swept up in an aromatic flood of emotions that she never thought to experience again. 

“It has been widely proven that of all the senses, the sense of smell is the one most directly tied to memory,” Sherlock explained. “You were correct when you said I had ruined the one positive reminiscence of your childhood. Unintentional, though it was, I will never be able to fully atone for that, but I hope that this will allow you at least some chance at repairing the damage I have done.” 

Joanna shook the pouch gently, and a scattering of tobacco leaves fell into her open palm.  She brought her hand to her nose and breathed deeply; the blend was mild with a smoky and woodsy quality.  It was also sweet with undertones of cherry and chocolate.  Memories of Scotland and of her grandfather danced to the forefront of her mind. 

Sherlock was looking at her with a hesitant yet hopeful smile.

“Granda blended his own.  How did you …”

“A good sniff of the residue in each of the three pipes is all it took.  I had it blended specifically for you and contracted with the tobacconist that it should never be sold to anyone else.  I do have more than a passing knowledge about tobacco ash, after all.” 

“Two hundred and forty varieties.”

“Two hundred and forty three … no, four,” Sherlock corrected automatically. 

Joanna shook the leaves back into the bag and looped the leather cord about the neck of the pouch securely. “Thank you.  This … this means a lot.”  But her words seemed insufficient, so before she could think twice, Joanna cupped the side of his face in her hand.  He bent his head low and she brushed his temple with her lips. For a moment she brushed her thumb along the bottom curve of his cheekbone and smiled when he tried not to curl into her touch and failed miserably.

“There is one more thing.”  Sherlock’s voice was suddenly rough. He eased away from her touch and reached into his trouser pocket.  What he pulled from it stayed closed in his hand. “You asked me the other night whether there was anything that meant something to me.”  

Joanna cringed at the memory. It had been one of the more hurtful things she had said to him that night.  She feared he thought she was accusing him of being the sociopath he claimed to be, but as bad as what she had said had been, it was nothing compared to what she had done by threatening his violin.  Talk about something for which she would never be able to atone. 

He caught her look of discomfort and embarrassment and huffed with irritation. “It was a fair question. It’s true that the violin does hold great value to me, but there is something else.  Something that is, as you said, _precious_.”

Sherlock pulled the tobacco pouch from her fingers and set it aside, pressing the contents of his hand into hers. “If Mycroft knew I had this, he would never let me live it down, I’m afraid.  He’d be right to do so, too.  This is the epitome of sentiment.  Foolishness, really. And though I have tried, I’ve never been able to part with it.” 

Sherlock removed his hand from hers and waited for Joanna to open her fist.  When she did, she found a thin, brown leather collar, well-worn with age and use. It had a silver buckle and a small D-ring to which was attached an identification disk.   On the side of the disk facing upward were written the words “If found please contact” and below that phrase, a phone number.   She flipped the tag over. On it was etched only one word, a name.

“Nothing was the same after he was put down,” Sherlock explained.  He was staring off into the middle distance; he sounded withdrawn and lonely with memories. “He was my best friend, my _only_ friend for a long time, and once he was gone … well, it was a long while before things began to make sense. Took even longer before I found something … some _one_ I could trust like that again.”

Joanna curled the leather collar on the table, and refilled each of their glasses with the last of the wine. “Tell me about him,” she said, setting the now empty bottle away from her.

“No.”  Sherlock shook his head vehemently.  “Like I said, it’s foolishness.  He was just a dog –“

“He wasn’t ‘just’ anything, Sherlock. You loved him.” She gestured at the collar, the evidence of Sherlock’s affection and of the powerful impact the animal still held over him.

The child in Sherlock, the part of him that had loved Redbeard to distraction and desperately wanted to share that with Joanna was at war with his other self, the pragmatic scientist for whom sentiment was a danger, a defect, a hole in the armour of stoicism Sherlock had spent nearly twenty years forging.  The very same armour in which Joanna had found a tiny chink that had widened imperceptibly with her huggable jumpers, her dry sense of humour, her unfailing loyalty and bravery, and her uncanny ability completely surprise him.  Sherlock had been left open and vulnerable before he was ever the wiser. 

_No_ , Sherlock thought.  _This was **not** a good idea._

Joanna grabbed Sherlock’s hand just as he was about to jump from his chair and escape to his room.  She pressed his wine glass into his hand. _Relax_ , her eyes said.  She took his other hand in hers.   “Tell me about Redbeard.”

He did as she asked.

 

**September 10, 2011 – University College Hospital, London, England**

 Suspended Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade strode confidently through the hallways of UCH, nodding the occasional hello to the nurses and orderlies he had met over the course of the last week.   He approached a ward of private rooms and smiled at the sight of the tall, ginger-haired man who stood outside Joanna Watson’s room.

“Missed seeing you ‘round this week” Lestrade said. Though Greg had spent nearly every free minute he had visiting Joanna, keeping her entertained and focused on healing, Mycroft had been largely absent.

“I felt it was the better part of wisdom to avoid bearding the beast in her den for the time being,” said Mycroft. He tapped his umbrella on the floor for a shade of emphasis.

“And how _is_ the eye?”  The brilliant blues and reds that had blossomed across the right side of Mycroft’s face after Joanna punched him had mostly faded to sickly greens and yellows since last Greg had seen the elder Holmes brother.

“It’s _fine_.” The tapping increased. 

“You’re lucky Jo didn’t break your nose. I’ve never seen anyone move that quickly, let alone someone hooked up to a mass of IV lines.”

“The dear doctor has a wealth of talents.” 

“She always has,” Lestrade agreed before poking his nose through the open door to Joanna’s room.  The privacy drape had been pulled across the entrance, and he heard low voices speaking within.  “Whose with her now?”

“The new obstetrician, Dr Lannister.” Mycroft settled himself into a comfortable chair and indicated that Lestrade should do the same. “As you know, Joanna is responding well to treatment, and the doctors are comfortable in discharging her two days hence.  However, she is still in a rather delicate position where the Hyperemesis Gravidarum is concerned. Apparently it would be very easy for the morning sickness to get out of control again.  Dr Watson will need looking out for until the danger is well past for her and the child.”

“That’s going to be a bit o’ work then, isn’t it?” Greg mused.  “Mrs Hudson is far too old to climb all those stairs day after day, but I don’t see Jo letting anyone else stay in the flat, not even me, and she certainly won’t leave Baker Street willingly.”

“Which is why I have been making necessary arrangements.” 

“Goin’ to have her stay with you, then?”

“Dear, God, no!”  Mycroft looked horrified at the mere notion, and Greg couldn’t help but laugh.  The British Government sniffed with annoyance when he realized that Lestrade had merely intended to goad him into such a response. “Do you really think my brother would have wanted his offspring gestating anywhere near me?” 

“So you finally believe that the baby’s Sherlock’s?” 

“Detective Inspector, there was never any doubt of it in my mind.  Even before their relationship dipped toward the romantic, Dr Watson has always been singularly loyal to Sherlock.” 

“Then why did you –“ 

“Gregory, I have spent the better part of the last 30 years being the target of my brother’s distain and vitriolic attacks because it provided him with an outlet – a target, as it were – for the more frustrating and confusing aspects of his emotions, leaving Sherlock’s mind free to focus on the critical issues of his life and his work.  Though I was not always successful in my endeavours, I nonetheless became quite a master of the task.” 

“Soooo, if Joanna’s anger is focused on you …”

“Then it’s no longer centred on her situation, thereby allowing her to better focus on the serious issues of her health and in bringing my niece or nephew safely to term.” 

“Why, Mycroft Holmes, you _do_ care!” 

“Enough of that!  Please!”  Mycroft insisted, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. 

Lestrade chuckled, but his mirth faded as he considered the drawn curtain in the room across the hall. “None of that settles the issue, though, does it?  She’s as self-sufficient as they come.  Damn stubborn, to boot.  She won’t appreciate anyone, especially you, making decision like that for her.”   

“Oh, I assure you, Dr Watson will be fully informed about all of her options, and will be able to make the appropriate choice for herself given the circumstances. Though I will admit to taking some liberties in order to – how shall we call it? – ‘level the battlefield.’” 

The digital sound of the lift arriving drew Lestrade’s attention down the hall.  An older couple exited the car, and the woman, her long, grey hair swept up in a loose chignon, looked this way then that.  Spying Mycroft, she waved her hand briefly before striding purposefully down the corridor toward them.  Her husband – ‘ _A reasonable deduction, Lestrade,’_ Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind– was impossibly tall and slender with a shock of white hair and an air of bewilderment about him; he walked briskly to keep up with her.  

“You know them?”  Greg asked, rising from his chair. 

Mycroft nodded and followed suit. “I do, indeed.” 

“Who are they?” 

“The heavy artillery,” Mycroft said under his breath before greeting the woman with an overly bright “Mummy!” Even Lestrade could tell that Mycroft’s tone lay in that weird junction between the fabricated and the sincere. 

“Mummy?”  Lestrade didn’t even try to hide his amusement as Mummy Holmes wrapped her son in a perfunctory hug before getting right to the issue.

“Now, Mike, which one of these rooms is hers?” Mummy asked, gesturing at the rooms in the immediate vicinity. “Oh, I am pleased you made certain she’s in a private room, love.”  Mummy spoke briskly with an equally precise, but not overly posh, accent. Mr Holmes remained silent, and from the patient and serene expression he wore, Greg was pretty certain this was typical behaviour for him. 

“Mike?”  Lestrade shot Mycroft a pointed glance.   _Seriously?_  

“Oh, do shut up,” Mycroft muttered in response. 

“Don’t be rude, Mike,” Mummy said. “Though it seems you’ve already been taken to task for that.”  She reached up and gently palpated the bruising around Mycroft’s eye. He jerked back, but a stern glare from his mother had Mycroft leaning down so she could examine it more closely. “That lovely Anthea told me what you said to Dr Watson.  Very poorly done of you, indeed. I thought I taught you better than that. I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same thing if such aspersions had been cast in my direction.” 

“’ _If_?” scoffed Siger, lovingly.  “Ole Alfie Pope, dear? If memory serves, you left him with _two_ black eyes.” 

Mummy blushed prettily and chuckled at the memory. “Oh, I did, didn’t I? Well, he certainly deserved it. As did you, Mycroft Holmes!” She slapped his cheek affectionately and didn’t hide her grin when he winced. “Now.  Visiting hours have only just started, is Joanna receiving yet? It’s far past time for me to meet the woman who is to be the mother of my dear Sherlock’s child.”  

“Dr Watson is currently meeting with her physician, but I do imagine they’ll be done soon,” Mycroft said hastily, ready to move on before his mother began sharing horrifying stories from his childhood. “In the meantime, may I introduce Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard? Detective Inspector, my parents, Violet and Siger Holmes.”

It was Mr Holmes who extended his hand to Greg first. “A genuine pleasure, Detective Inspector,” the older man said warmly.  “Sherlock has spoken of you.  Well, at least when he says anything regarding The Work. Doesn’t call regularly, you know, but when we do talk, your name is usually in the conversation. He likes to say that you are –“ 

“… The best of a bad lot?”  Greg finished.  

Siger chuckled.  “Just so!”  He nudged Lestrade on the shoulder with his fist in appreciation.

Greg turned to look down at Mrs Holmes, and found that he was staring into Sherlock’s eyes.  More than once had that cool gaze assessed him, and it was just as unsettling now as it had ever been in the past.  After a moment, Violet smiled, took his hand and pressed it between hers. 

“May I call you, Gregory?”

“Greg, please, ma’am.”  It was all Lestrade could do not to bow.  She was small in stature but filled the hallway with a commanding presence that would likely rival that of the Queen. For all that, however, Violet and Siger seemed shockingly normal for having produced such … _unique_ children as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.f

“Thank you, Greg.  Our dear Sherlock has had few true friends in his life, but I believe he counts you among them,” she said kindly, “though he would never admit it to anyone, the daft boy.” 

The Holmeses had not attended Sherlock’s funeral. Initially, Greg had found it unpardonable, but after the service Mycroft had explained that his mother had fallen ill with the flu, and his father simply did not travel from Sussex without her. Mycroft had mentioned something about a small memorial service at the family estate for those who had know Sherlock as a child, so if Greg found it odd that after all these months Mr and Mrs Holmes still spoke of their younger son in the present tense, he didn’t show it. Joanna did much the same, when she spoke directly of Sherlock at all.  He would ask Mycroft about it later.  

At that moment, the privacy curtain inside Joanna’s room was pushed back, and Dr Lannister stepped out into the hall, making notations on the chart she held as she walked down the corridor.

“Detective Inspector, if you would be so kind as to handle the initial introductions between Dr Watson and my parents?” Mycroft asked. “Mummy, Father, I will join you shortly once I’ve had the opportunity to talk with Dr Lannister about Joanna’s progress." 

“Of course,” Mummy said, brushing at an invisible piece of lint on her son’s lapel.  “Take your time, love.  Father and I will have plenty to talk about with Joanna.”

Mycroft kissed Mummy’s proffered cheek, nodded once at his father, then at Lestrade, and walked down the hallway to join the obstetrician at the nurses’ station.

The tap—tap—tap of Mycroft’s brolly echoed down the hallway, and not for the first time, Lestrade wondered which Holmes brother was the truly mad one.  It was clear that Mycroft intended to use his parents to somehow leverage Joanna into leaving Baker Street.  ‘Heavy artillery,’ Mycroft had called them.  Lestrade couldn’t help but think it a bit of an understatement.  

_More like a bloody smart bomb_ , he thought as he guided the elderly couple in to meet Joanna. 

In any event, Greg would ensure that Jo didn’t feel any undue pressure from Sherlock’s parents.  Mycroft’s machinations would turn out to either be brilliant or the worst disaster any of them had ever seen.  Lestrade was definitely hoping for the former.

It was but the work of a few moments for Dr Lannister to understand Mycroft’s role in Joanna Watson’s health care, and just minutes more for him to learn that all was progressing as hoped, that the results of Joanna’s ultrasound were normal, and that a follow up would be scheduled in a month’s time.  Mycroft left the doctor with a threatening smile and a promise to call for further information as it was deemed necessary.

He was about to join his parents when the mobile in his breast pocket buzzed a text alert.  Pulling it out, Mycroft read the message, glanced at the foursome deep in conversation in the hospital room, and stepped away from the door.

 

_Phase one complete.  –SH_

_It took longer than you thought it would. – MH_

_This entire endeavour will take longer than we thought.  – SH_

_The complexity of M’s organisation is far more intricate than we anticipated. – SH_

_When will you proceed to phase two?  - MH_

_In two days. Do not expect to hear from me for at least three months.  No communication, whatsoever. – SH_

_If I do not contact you by Christmas, assume I failed. – SH_

_Understood. – MH_

_All necessary safe houses and supply caches have been established as agreed. – MH_

_Do you require anything else?   – MH_

_No. But … -- SH_

_Yes? -- MH_

_Everyone is well?  -- SH_

_Don’t be tiresome.  I have everything well in hand.  – MH_

_Yes. Of course.  Any final details I should know before I go dark? – SH_

Mycroft looked down the hall at the room that held their parents, Lestrade, and very pregnant Joanna Watson. He hesitated. There was much he could say. Much he _should_ say.

_Nothing new. Phase Two is go. – MH_

_Safe travels, little brother.    – MH_

_Tedious. – SH_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to hit that "Kudos" button if you haven't already. And I really can't tell you how much every single comment means to me. They really do make my day. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but love from my readers puts me over the moon!
> 
> Ta very much!


	5. A Tiny Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reflects upon not so ancient history; Joanna untangles a complicated situation that leads to a new beginning; Greg serves as the perfect sounding board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> Sorry for the extreme delay with this most recent chapter. Thankfully, I managed to get it up before a full month passed, but I am heartily embarrassed by how long it took. All I can say is that as a teacher, this time of year is extremely busy for me, but now that school has ended, I hope to post more frequent updates.
> 
> Please be aware that there will be discussions of suicide/suicide ideation in this chapter. If that is a trigger for you, you are officially forewarned.
> 
> My thanks again to the transcript work of Ariane DeVere, and I'd like to give a special shout out to AtlinMerrick who let me run with an idea I had waiting in the wings that by pure happenstance appeared in one of her own fics. Thank you, kindly, milady.
> 
> For those of you who have left kudos and comments, I adore you all. Kudos make me happy as a clam because it lets me know that people are still reading, even after a month. Comments, however, are absolutely divine! I practically "squee" with glee when I see them. Please keep them coming.
> 
> I am still looking for someone to beta and/or brit pick this tale. A beta would be especially helpful as I have so many ideas for the various chapters that I sometimes don't know whether I'm coming or going. :)
> 
> Finally: As you read this chapter, please remember to follow the dates at the top of each section. This is NOT a linear tale.

* * *

 

 

“A mighty flame follows a tiny spark.”

~ Dante Alighieri

 

 

**Chapter Five: A Tiny Spark**

 

**November 3, 2013 – 55 Whitehall, London, England**

 

Sherlock stood at the edge of the roof and gazed out upon the city he hadn’t seen in over two years.  All of London was laid out below and beyond him. He closed his eyes and let the sounds and the smells of the ancient hamlet suffuse his senses.

Few ever really looked beyond the iconic skyline. Oh, they saw the landmarks – Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, The Eye, the Palace of Westminster – but that wasn’t _London_.   London was light and shadow, nobility and deceit, honour and malice, outwardly benign yet furtively malignant.    It was great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents, and drifters were irresistibly drained, and though Sherlock loved every fickle kilometre of it, he wasn’t in tune with London anymore. Nevertheless, Mycroft wanted him to save it – again.  As if that wasn’t what he had spent the last two and a half years doing.  Sherlock had told his brother that he needed to get to know London again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart, let it permeate his mind and body until he knew it as intimately as he knew himself.

Sherlock had come to Whitehall frequently in his younger years, to stand atop this particular landmark and survey his realm; as he grew older, more confident and secure in his chosen profession, less so. Sometimes, like today, it was to reconnect with the city, see it from a new vantage point.  Other times – extremely rare occasions when the usually nurturing walls of Baker Street grew uncomfortable, judgemental, and critical with disapproval – he came here to think.  Not to wander about in his mind palace, but to evaluate and to study himself. Mycroft had always thought Sherlock incapable of self-reflection.  He believed Sherlock so far removed from his own emotions that it was impossible to analytically evaluate his own choices. 

But then, Mycroft was an idiot.

It had been over three years since Sherlock last stood on this rooftop, and when he had, it had been the need for reflection and solitude that sent him there.

Across the city, Joanna had been celebrating her birthday with great fanfare.  Friends, food, drinking, darts, camaraderie.  All very tedious.   Sherlock had never had any intention of going.  There’d be _people_ , after all. How old she was Sherlock hadn’t known until Lestrade mentioned it. It hadn’t mattered.   Older, yes.  Perhaps a bit wiser given her exposure to Sherlock and his methods; certainly less of an idiot than she had been even ten months ago. 

Lestrade had been moderately appalled when Sherlock let slip that he wasn’t attending the party – the DI knew that parties weren’t really Sherlock’s ‘thing’ – but he had been apoplectic when he discovered that Sherlock didn’t even intend to make his excuses let alone send a card.

“She’s your best friend, for Christ’s sake! Your flat mate! You can’t just not show up,” Lestrade bellowed.  Sherlock ignored the double negative.  “The least you could do is wish her a sodding Happy Birthday.” 

The depth of the relationship between Sherlock and his blogger had not yet evolved into what Sherlock would eventually spend nearly two and a half years working to protect; he had recently felt a growing awareness for Joanna’s happiness, had become more cognizant of her needs, but Sherlock had been neither yet comfortable with nor practised in tying his actions to his, or her, emotions. 

“Why would I do that?”  Sherlock sat in his leather chair, the DI across from him in Joanna’s who was out at the shops assisting Mrs Hudson.  “All the data indicates that Joanna is to a degree uncomfortable the fact that she is getting older.  In spite of her excellent physical condition, her hips and knees are exceedingly stiff when she wakes, requiring an extremely hot shower in order to loosen the joints before she’s able to move with ease.  Her shoulder aches more when the weather is poor.  She has mentioned the possible need for reading glasses ‘sometime soon.’  Symptoms of age that have certainly been exacerbated by the injuries she sustained in Afghanistan …”

“To say nothing about what happens whenever she has to chase after you when you go haring off after a suspect. What is she up to now, 37 stitches?”

“Forty-six.  There was that incident at Hampstead Heath a fortnight ago,” Sherlock corrected, flapping his hand dismissively at the sarcasm in the DI’s voice. “Be that as it may, I fail to see how my wishing her a ‘Happy Birthday’ in any way offsets the passing of another year.”

“She’s thirty-eight, Sherlock, not eighty. And I’d remind you that it was a year that brought her into your life to begin with, you git. Something I thank God for every time you set foot on a crime scene.” Lestrade ignored Sherlock’s glare. “The least you could do is acknowledge it.  A card seems –“

“Pre-packaged sentiment?  Absolutely not.  If you insist that I –“

“I do.”

“If you insist that I salute the anniversary of Joanna’s birth, I shall do it _my_ way. You will assist me.”

Lestrade didn’t hide his huff of relief. Privately, _very_ privately, Sherlock admitted that he was astoundingly thick when it came to interpersonal issues, but he felt that he had made some progress since Joanna Watson had come into his life. A year ago, this conversation would have been nearly impossible, and Sherlock’s capitulation a pipe dream for the Detective Inspector.

“What do you need me to do?” Lestrade asked.

The video had taken an hour to make. Five times longer than Sherlock had originally allocated for something that, in the end, was less than 30 seconds long.  However, much to Sherlock’s surprise, he wanted his well wishes to Joanna to come across as sincerely as possible.  Which was exactly the problem.  At first Sherlock had no idea what to say, such sentiments really were far outside his area of expertise, but after some inept prodding by Lestrade and a few minutes scouring the tiny ‘public relations’ cupboard of his mind palace – a relatively new addition courtesy of Joanna Watson – Sherlock had finally decided on the script. He was a good enough actor on cases, so he reasoned that this would come off just as he wished.

The first three takes were ruined by Lestrade’s incompetence with the video feature on his mobile.  The fourth by a series of texts from Mycroft over the absurdity of this venture, ending with:

_Just go to the party, little brother; inane though it might be. – MH_

The fifth attempt was interrupted by a minor explosion in the kitchen; Sherlock had completely forgotten about the octopus tentacles.  He’d need to start again, and they’d need new pressure cooker.  Joanna would not be pleased.

By the sixth take, they had it. Lestrade had finally left Sherlock in peace, and he was able to scuttle off out of the flat before Joanna returned home to get ready for ‘her big night out.’

Sherlock’s wanderings had taken him to all corners of the city central that night.  First, he had checked in on various members of his homeless network. They’d been keeping an ear to the ground ever since the pool for anything having to do with Moriarty. Sherlock and Mycroft were certain it was only a matter of time before the consulting criminal popped out of his hiding place to wreak more havoc upon London, so any information could prove to be critical to the plans the brothers had in the making.

Reports received from his irregulars and payment exchanged for services rendered, Sherlock had then popped off to The Serpentine and thence to St. James’ Park to evaluate the progress on a few outdoor experiments he had running.  Around midnight, he found himself at Charing Cross, so a trip to 55 Whitehall seemed only reasonable.

It had been a chilly night, Sherlock remembered, but a clear one, and the glitter and sparkle of the city lights served as effective camouflage for the dodgier and more dangerous underbelly of London that Sherlock knew all too well. 

There, standing atop London, Sherlock had allowed his mind wander back to the topic of Joanna Watson.  His flat mate.  His … friend?

Though he personally had little need to celebrate birthdays, Joanna clearly did, and Sherlock genuinely hoped that she was enjoying her celebration.  More to the point, however, Sherlock had found himself a bit surprised at the fact that he wished he were spending it with her.  Not enough to suffer through the crush at the pub or the pedantic conversation of her friends mind you, but maybe it hadn’t been good of him to avoid her all together that day. 

Sherlock had pulled a cigarette from the packet in his pocket, lit it, and drew a long stream of smoke into his lungs. He held it for a long moment, letting this nicotine seep into his bloodstream before exhaling slowly.

Should he have taken Joanna to lunch? Perhaps.  It’s what a friend would do, Sherlock supposed, flicking the ash of the end of the cig before brining back to his lips.  He did enjoy spending time with her, though he still couldn’t completely pin down why.   Joanna Watson was a constant study in contrasts that left Sherlock feeling more firmly grounded then he had ever been in his life while at the same time hopelessly wrong-footed in terms of his reactions to her.

Joanna was infinitely frustrating in that she didn’t use her mind to its fullest potential, yet she was a source of illumination for him and for The Work.  She irritated him every time she forced him to eat or sleep but was advantageous to his thinking process when either bogged him down.  It galled him that in less than a year she was able to read him far better than even Mycroft could, but though he didn’t always understand it, Sherlock admired the innate kindness she showed to her patients, to her friends, and even to him. Joanna was cheeky and brazen when it was called for yet always sympathetic to victims and their families.  Irksome when – well sometimes the woman was just plain tedious! She was serious and introspective when warranted; persistent and quietly lethal to those that threatened those she cared about – primarily Sherlock who was still at a loss as to how he of all people had managed to earn Joanna’s faithfulness and devotion so completely and struggled to find a way to express to her that the … sentiment was more than reciprocated. 

Joanna’s inner fortitude was reflected in her physical presence and neither could be easily ignored. She was short but not delicate. With her strong shoulders, powerful arms, sturdy legs, and trim form Sherlock had more than once been reminded of a stout grey mare that had lived on a neighbouring property when he was growing up in Sussex.  Even Sherlock – as little as he cared for polite conversation or social conventions – knew better than to make this comparison directly to Joanna, but he had always admired the way that animal had approached every task it was given.  Just barely 14 hands high, not once had Maribelle ever shied away from a heavy load or a long day ploughing in the field – the Parsons had been horrifically archaic when it came farming their land – and the same held true for Joanna.  She had dragged mortally wounded soldiers from the heat of battle, endlessly pursued criminals through the streets of London, and bodily carried an unconscious Sherlock over her shoulder from a burning building paying no never mind to the fact that he had a full eight inches over her in height and nearly three full stone in weight.

She was slow to truly anger, but when she had reached her limit, Joanna’s explosion of temper was lengthy and fearsome.   Her stubborn streak rivalled Sherlock’s own, and had once sent Mycroft from the flat muttering under his breath and clenching the handle of his brolly in frustration. Something that Sherlock had never managed to do, not even in his teens.  Sherlock found it to be one of Joanna’s more admirable qualities, so long as it wasn’t directed at him.  

Her deep blue eyes could shift from warm to inscrutable to malicious in the span of three heartbeats.  Her smile was often quick and affectionate yet could easily slide into a sigil of violence to come.  Her long hair was thick and just the right shade of blonde for her complexion, and more than once Sherlock had struggled to keep his heartbeat regulated when its loose curls hung about her shoulders ‘just so.’ Joanna wasn’t classically beautiful, her features were just a bit too asymmetrical to be so, but she was lovely in a way that garnered far more attention that Sherlock was really comfortable with, particularly where many of the Yarders – male and female – were concerned.

Sherlock’s intimate encounters with other people were rather limited and had always been more experimental than sentimental. He detested labels, but society would likely classify him as bisexual.  When he could be bothered with physical intimacy, it was the person who attracted him not the genitalia.  Nevertheless, four of the five assignations Sherlock had experienced had been with men. They were familiar and Sherlock was as comfortable with them as he could be with anyone – which was barely – but there was something about Joanna that pushed the hated awkwardness and anxiety to the fringes of his mind and left him as relaxed and content as he had any right being.

He enjoyed being with Joanna, he concluded as he took another drag on the cigarette, and he didn’t like spending time with _anyone_.   Being around her was both relaxing and challenging. He certainly had laughed more in the last months than he had in the previous decade.  Given the opportunity, Sherlock was quite certain that he could comfortably spend the rest of his days with Joanna Watson in his life as his friend, but could there be more?  Did he want more?  Did she? He had it on good authority – nearly 25 years of observation and deduction though no practical experience – that intimate relationships were inherently risky when conducted with one’s best friend.

Though he detested theorizing until all the data was available to him, Sherlock knew that Joanna would always be a source of endless data.  Therefore, Sherlock was left with the following conclusions:

  * Joanna Watson was equally frustrating and mesmerising.
  * Therefore, Joanna was endlessly fascinating.
  * Since she was endlessly fascinating, Joanna was important.



A delicate yet pointed cough sounded behind him.

  * Joanna was … here!



Sherlock had spun from his musings, nearly over balancing in the process; his natural grace abandoned him in his surprise, and he had teetered on one leg for a long moment before righting himself, attempting to hide the cigarette behind his back.

“Don’t even bother, Sherlock,” Joanna had said, gesturing at his concealed hand.  “You know my opinions.  Do what you want tonight.”

Sherlock studied Joanna for a long moment she looked tired, but not from the party or from drink.  One whiskey.  One pint. Barely enough to give her a pleasant buzz. Joanna had a tolerance for alcohol that rivalled men three times her size.  No.  Not tired. Resigned.  Why?

The cigarette fell from his fingers, unbidden; he crushed it with the heel of his shoe.

Joanna set down the large paper bag she carried, and pulled her mobile from the pocket of her good coat.  Sherlock noted that she wore a new dress – a rarity – that suited her and enhanced the dark blue of her eyes.  Her hair hung in long, loose curls over her shoulders and down her back. She tucked an errant lock behind her right ear, and thumbed open the phone.

“So this is the ‘thing’ that was so important,” she had said quietly, scanning through the various screens until she found what she was looking for.

“The thing, yessss …” Sherlock hedged. Unwilling to admit that he had no idea what Joanna was talking about.

“Lestrade said you had ‘a thing’. That’s why you weren’t able to come to the pub tonight.”  Joanna clicked the link that appeared on the screen of the phone, turned the mobile toward him, and waited for the video to play on the small screen. Joanna adjusted the volume so Sherlock could hear it over the short distance that separated them.

Sherlock had never seen the final take, so he had watched intently as he appeared on the small screen, sitting in his leather chair in front of the window in Baker Street _. “Hello, Joanna,”_ he said with a smile.  Sherlock recognized that smile as his fake smile.  The one he used when he was lying or manipulating those around him.  His ‘consulting detective’ smile.  The one he knew Joanna hated.  Oh dear.  This was more than a bit not good.

 _“I’m sorry I’m not there at the moment.  I’m_ very _busy,”_ he said _.  “However, many happy returns._ _Oh, and don’t worry. I’m going to be with you again very soon.”_ Sherlock watched as he smiled that awful smile again and followed it up with a wink. It was awful.  Even he could see that.  It was fake.  It was insincere. It was insulting. If the video had been for anyone else, Sherlock could have given a toss what they thought, but this was not what he had intended for Joanna.

“The wink was actually a nice touch. Very human of you,” Joanna said. She pocketed the phone, looked up at him.  When had she gotten so close? Sherlock wondered.  “It’s the same one you gave me that day at Bart’s.  Very cheeky, but then that’s part and parcel of the whole Sherlock Holmes package, isn’t it?  Play poorly at being human so they don’t have to see how human you really are.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock said, not for the first time.

“Got it in one, but not for the reason you think.”

“You’re not disappointed that I didn’t come to your birthday party.”

“Sherlock, I never expected you to show. You think I’ve forgotten what happened the night of Lestrade’s 45th?   You’re uncomfortable in large crowds of people you don’t know or like, and you’re not a big fan of parties.”

“If you didn’t expect me to be there, then why …”

“I didn’t expect you to _lie_ to me.  I didn’t expect that something like this,” she pulled the phone from her pocket again, “would be your excuse.  That after all we’ve been through together you’d just disappear today of all days.”

“You weren’t alone.  Lestrade said that there were dozens of people planning to attend.”

“And they did.  It was fun.  Nice to spend time with everyone.  Haven’t seen Bill Murray since I invalided home.”  She had leaned against one of the ancient chimneys that dotted the rooftop of the historic building.  “You’d have hated every minute of it.”

“Then I … I don’t understand.” Sherlock still hated those words. Still hated not knowing.

“I know you don’t, so I’m going to try to explain it so you do.”  Joanna had reached out and tugged on one of the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff, pulling him closer. She looked up at him, and Sherlock had been shocked by the unexpected emotion he saw there.

Joanna had one of the most expressive faces Sherlock had ever seen.  Shock. Anger. Amusement. Distain. Affection.  Sherlock knew and recognized them all.  He had also been impressed by her ability to school her expression into an enigmatic mask that rivaled his own which, according to Lestrade, made her hell to play against in poker.  But _this_ expression.  _This_ emotion, Sherlock had never seen on Joanna’s face. 

Shame.

“We’re both shite with emotions, you and I.” Joanna smiled, but it wasn’t with mirth.  “You pretend not to have them, which is utter rubbish.  No, it _is_. I don’t buy that sociopath nonsense and never have.”  Joanna’s look and finger were equally pointed when Sherlock tried to protest. “My emotions … well, some I have no trouble expressing – ”

They both knew she was talking about her temper.

“Others …” Joanna grimaced and turned away. “Look, I find it difficult …” She brought her hand to her mouth and Sherlock heard her stifle a groan before drawing her shoulders up and turning back toward him. “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.  You know that. B-but I need you to understand …”

Sherlock had wanted to reach out to her, but her rigid posture and his uncertainty stayed his hand.

“You’ve already figured out that I’m more than a bit broken.  Deduced that in the first five minutes, I’d imagine.  So, opening up to people.  It’s hard. Haven’t had much success with it in the past.”

“Trust issues.” 

“Yeah.”

“Yet you trust me.”

“Implicitly.”

“Why?”  It made no sense. ‘Trustworthy’ and Sherlock Holmes were words that were simply never uttered in the same sentence.  There were decades worth of evidence to prove that point.

“The day we met …” Joanna had stopped to figure out how best to phrase what she wanted to tell him.  Sherlock saw how the shame had deepened in her eyes. Clearly whatever she wanted to say made her feel weak.  Odds were that she was about to share with him something few people, if any, knew.  “I had already put most of my affairs in order, yeah?  There wasn’t much, to do, actually.  It’s not like I had a lot of possessions or people in my life that would have noticed. At least that’s what I thought at the time.  Updated my will to leave my effects and pension to Bill.”  Joanna’s voice had become monotonous, lost all emphasis. “Letter for Harry, not that he really deserved one, but figured he’d tell our Da … Was on my way back to that awful bedsit when I decided to take a detour through the park, and I ran into Mike.” 

“And Stamford brought you to me.”

She bit the inside of her bottom lip, took a deep breath, and confessed.  “Meeting you kept me from putting a bullet in my brain that night, Sherlock, and becoming your friend, your colleague, your partner has kept me from ever considering it again.”

“And your birthday …” The pieces were coming together for Sherlock, but something still eluded him.  Damn sentiment.

“It’s about celebrating _life_.  About finding a _purpose_ again. How do you expect me to do that without the one person who has been directly responsible for helping me rebuild that life?  When the one person I have come to love and care about most in the world has hidden himself away at the top of the bloody city?”

Sherlock had looked at her, eyes wide with incredulity.  “You mean …”

Joanna lowered her head for a moment to collect herself then raised it again to meet his gaze.  The words that she said next had come in such a rapid stream that Sherlock got the impression she might break apart if she had to think about them too long. 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are the best and wisest man I have ever known, but you drive me ‘round the twist on a daily basis.   I’m captivated by your genius and disgusted with what you keep in the fridge.  I want to slap you as often as I want to hug you.  You say things that make me feel like a bloody idiot one minute and manage to follow it up with something that makes me feel incandescent the next. People ask me why I continue to share a flat with you, and I can’t give them an answer because there are no words to describe what it brings to my life.  I wouldn’t change a single bloody thing about you, but am so proud when you take small steps to become better than you are.  I love you, you git.  You’re my dearest friend, and when it comes down to it, there’s no one else I _need_ to spend my birthday with – this one or the next 40 – than you.”

Sherlock had felt himself blink several times in rapid succession, but said nothing.  It seemed as though he was frozen in place.  He was looking at her but didn’t seem to really see her. The silence continued to drag on for several moments.  

“Sherlock?”  Joanna had gripped his shoulders in her hands before running a hand to cup his cheek, shaking him gently.  “Sherlock!” she insisted. 

The consulting detective took a deep breath and surprisingly leaned into Joanna’s gentle hand.  She sighed in relief.  It seemed the hard drive was finally coming back on line.  He swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly as he refocused on Joanna.

“So, in fact …” He had seemed unable to process this new data with his usual rapidity. 

“Yes?” Joanna asked.

“You – you mean …”

 “Yes?”

“I’m your best …”

“Friend.  Yes.”

“And you … care about me?”

“I do.  I love you, you berk.”

Sherlock smiled.  Not the fake one that he had used in that horrible video, but the real one that had come into far more frequent use since Joanna had come into his life.  The one he had thought long dead from disuse.  In an action that had no explanation other than that it had simply felt right, Sherlock pulled Joanna to him and held her close.  She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his chest. They stood that way for long moments. He had felt the steady beat of her heart against his chest, smelled the lavender of her shampoo, and tasted the tea and salt and vanilla of her skin when he pressed a kiss to her temple. He should have felt awkward and uncomfortable for this was the height of sentiment.  Not his area.

All Sherlock had felt was peace.

“Happy Birthday, Joanna,” he had whispered against her hair.

They had stayed on the roof for the rest of the night watching the city scape as they drank the wine and ate the fish and chips Joanna had picked up after she left the pub with Sherlock’s location embedded in a text from Mycroft.    They had talked about everything and nothing:  cases, the Yarders, her tours in Afghanistan, his stints in rehab, her days in medical school, his in Uni.  They argued about why she hated green peppers on pizza and why he never ate lemon custard but couldn’t get enough of lemon biscuits. He never became bored with the discussion, and she never became irritated with his answers.

They left once the sun came up and took a cab back to the flat.  Joanna had fallen asleep against Sherlock’s shoulder halfway home.  Due to a trio of late night cases, sleep and Joanna had not been frequent acquaintances that week, so Sherlock had offered the cabbie a 50 quid tip if he drove around London for an hour so she could sleep a bit more before returning to Baker Street.

Sherlock had used the time to catch up on business.

_Do any of our current scenarios allow for my return to London should we need to enact them?  – SH_

_None. You know that. Why are you asking questions for which you already have the answers, little brother? – MH_

Sherlock looked down at Joanna nestled underneath his arm.  Face slack with sleep, she seemed far more at peace than she had since the pool.  Suddenly Sherlock wanted more than anything than to keep it that way.  Keep her safe from the schemes being planned should Moriarty reappear and insist that the game continue to its inescapable conclusion.

_Doctor Watson, then.  Oh, Sherlock. This will be disastrous for you both. You know that. – MH_

_Your support and faith in me is, as always, so very appreciated, Mycroft. – SH_

_Create a thirteenth scenario.  Code name: **Lazarus**. – SH_

_If you insist.  I hope you know what you’re doing, brother mine. – MH_

_I always do.  – SH_

 

Now, over two years later, Sherlock was still convinced he had taken the right course.  Moriarty was dead.  His criminal empire dismantled so thoroughly that it would take years for even the smallest part of it to struggle back to life.  He had kept Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and Joanna each safe from a sniper’s bullet.  For all those months, Sherlock had not permitted himself to consider the personal cost: the pain, the torture, and the murders to say nothing about leaving Joanna behind.  Letting her believe he had jumped from St. Bart’s in disgrace. Months spent focusing not on how much he missed her but on how each phase, each mission, brought him one step closer to returning to her, to cases, to experiments. 

Permitting himself one last glance at the city beyond 55 Whitehall, Sherlock turned from familiar skyline and took the stairs down to the street.  He had an appointment in the Marylebone Road, and it wouldn’t do to be late.

It was time to take his life back.

 

* * *

 

 

**November 22, 2010 – 221B Baker Street, London, England**

Joanna’s critical eye assessed the damage in front of her.  Catastrophic. That really was the only word to describe it. This was not going to be an easy repair.  Several hours at least.  She wasn’t an expert in this particular field, but taking him to one who was would likely result in the very thing she was hoping to avoid. Besides, Sherlock would never consent. She looked at the instruments that she had laid out in precise order on the sofa next to her, debated for a moment, and then made her selection. 

“I’ll do my best, but this is probably going to hurt,” she said to Sherlock who sat on the floor in front of her, facing the rest of the flat.  “Not like I can anesthetize the area.”

Sherlock snort was derisive.  “I would like to remind you that _my_ solution to this situation is pain free.  You’re the one who suggested this course of action.”

“I’m not keen on causing you pain, Sherlock, but I can’t let you – ”

“Just get on with it,” he interrupted, fluttering his hand in irritation.  They had been through this half a dozen times in the last sixty minutes, yet the argument had become moot in the first five.  “I shouldn’t notice any discomfort in my mind palace. I need to categorize all the data from the case anyway.”

Joanna didn’t bother asking him if he were sure. He had voiced his opinion. End stop.   “Okay, scoot closer to me.  I’d rather not throw my back out.”  Sherlock complied, settling against the front of the sofa between Joanna’s legs. She adjusted the bath towel she had wrapped around shoulders then angled Sherlock’s head down so that his chin was resting against his chest and set to work.

Their case had been the murder of Miss Eve Calhoon, executive assistant to the Vice President of Aerospace Development at Exosphere Solutions, who had been found naked and bludgeoned to death on the company testing grounds outside Caversham.  Her killer – the company’s chief of security who had been quickly apprehended – had been paid a handsome sum by the CEO to silence the woman before she could give evidence to Scotland Yard about acts of industrial espionage and corporate embezzlement that had had been orchestrated by the CEO, Nicholas Helton, to remove rivals bidding on several lucrative military contracts.   The case was a four at best; even Joanna had found it a bit predictable.  Of course Helton ran, and of course Sherlock and Joanna had given chase. They managed to corner him in the aerodynamics lab, but just as they were about to catch him, he ducked into the wind tunnel in a pointless attempt to elude them, activating the system in the process.

Sherlock had Helton pinned to the ground, secured with the cuffs he had nicked from Lestrade, not five minutes later. Unfortunately, neither man had escaped their tussle completely unharmed.  There was damage.  Helton dislocated his shoulder when Sherlock slammed him up against the drone being tested in the tunnel; no big deal as far as Joanna was concerned, she had a more significant injury to worry about.

Sherlock’s hair.

Caught in the tunnel where wind speeds could exceed 190 kilometres per hour, Sherlock’s curls never stood a chance.  He emerged from the lab, his hair a mass of tangles and mats the likes of which Joanna had never seen.   

Sherlock withstood the not-so-gentle ribbing of the Yarders when they took Helton into custody – it was just transport after all – and largely ignored the sniggers from the cabbie that drove them back to Baker Street. Only a minor comment about the dubious parentage of the man’s middle child. However, by the time Joanna paid and soothed the cabbie by way of a generous tip, Sherlock had already bounded up the stairs to the flat and shut himself up in the loo. Joanna set the kettle to boil and searched the fridge for something uncontaminated with which to make dinner when the sudden electronic buzz had her running down the short hallway. She burst into the loo and grabbed the electric clippers from Sherlock’s hand an instant before he set the blades to his hair.

“Joanna!” Sherlock barked, reaching for the clippers. “Give those to me now.”

Joanna turned the power off, tucked the hair trimmer into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled the hem of her jumper over it. “Sherlock Holmes, you are absolutely _not_ shaving your head.”

The next ten minutes featured a very spirited discussion regarding personal grooming, invasion of privacy – ‘You can have your privacy when you start respecting mine, you berk!’ – and aesthetics that finally ended with Joanna’s passionate plea, “Sod it all, Sherlock! You know you don’t want to shave it off any more than I do.  I don’t buy the ‘transport’ argument this time.  You love your hair. I mean, have you _seen_ the hair products you keep in the cupboard.  You could coif half of Cornwall with what you’ve got in there.  Just give me _two_ hours, and if I can’t make decent progress, I’ll give you back the clippers and you can do what you will.”

While Sherlock brooded in his chair, Joanna popped off to the chemists ‘round the corner, leaving the clippers Mrs Hudson’s secure care, to get what she needed to save Sherlock’s crowning glory.

Joanna had sprayed the detangling solution liberally over his head, letting the mixture seep through the mats and knots down to his scalp.  She separated a section of hair at the nape of Sherlock’s head, and taking up a broad-toothed comb, made her way meticulously through the tangles.

Joanna pulled as gently as she could, frequently reapplying the detangler whenever she came across a particularly challenging knot. Nevertheless, there were some violent tugs that Sherlock – true to his word – didn’t seem to notice. He was deep in his mind palace, sorting and categorizing Lord knew what from their latest case, but precisely two hours later, Sherlock roused himself from his citadel to check on Joanna’s progress.

It had initially been slow going. It had taken nearly three quarters of an hour to unwind even half the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s head, but Joanna eventually fell into a rhythm and by the time her two hour time limit arrived, she had finished his nape, his left temple, and had moved on to the lower crown.

Deeming her progress satisfactory, Sherlock returned to his cataloguing and left Joanna to her task.

His mind had not taken him back to the study which housed all Sherlock had learned about financial crimes, however. His mental self instead stood in the conservatory of Joanna’s wing where each plant and flower represented not a unique species of flora, but rather a separate moment or action embodying the myriad ways in which Joanna had brought a degree of peace to Sherlock’s life 

Joanna Watson was a highly tactile person. She thrived on touch as he did on data. A bit surprising considering the abuse of her childhood, but as she was a doctor, so it stood to reason that such physicality was an intrinsic response.  Pre-programmed to nurture, so to speak, but Sherlock couldn’t truly classify her touch as purely clinical. His parents had been physically affectionate when he was a child; Mycroft and he never suffered from a lack of hugs and kisses – much to their dismay – but since Uni, when things became increasingly awkward for him where other people were concerned, Sherlock had often gone out of his way to avoid physical contact whenever possible.

Until Joanna. 

Though she had never shied away from touching him, in the weeks since her birthday Joanna seemed to find an increasing number of reasons to reach out to him.  Initially, Sherlock had been startled and a bit confused by her actions, but was unable and unwilling to complain about them.  Eventually, he even found himself seeking out her touch of his own volition. 

A pat on the back or a quick hug after the successful conclusion of a case caused his ears to warm and his neck to flush. The brush of her fingertips against his as she passed him a cuppa in the morning Sherlock discovered would cause his lips to twitch in a smile.  A quick squeeze of his shoulder as he sat hunched over his microscope, and Sherlock would pause in his analysis until the warmth that filled his chest diffused throughout his limbs leaving him energized in such a way that he usually only experienced after four cups of coffee or a hit of cocaine.  And without fail, each time Joanna touched him, Sherlock’s keen, teeming mind settled into a moment of perfect silence before coming back online with more clarity than had been there before.

But _this_ extended attention was something altogether different.  As Joanna’s fingers picked and separated each tangle on his head, Sherlock found his mind decelerating. Lost in the sensations of her fingertips and of the bits of Joanna he had been storing in his mind palace for months, Sherlock felt a mantle of contentment settle upon him that he had not experienced in decades.

The case forgotten, Sherlock let himself bask in the light that filtered through the windows of Joanna’s conservatory and just feel.

Three hours later, she was done. Joanna pressed the edges of the bath towel to Sherlock’s scalp, absorbing the remaining solution before pulling a fine-toothed comb through his dark locks, searching for any tangles she may have missed.  There were none. She folded the towel and stacked the combs and picks she had used on top of the coffee table.

“Everything’s set to rights, Sherlock,” Joanna whispered in his ear.  She knew nothing would pull him from his mind palace until he was ready to emerge on his own, but she hoped that the message would seep in anyway.

She scooted around Sherlock’s body where he still sat pressed up against the front of the sofa.  She rolled her shoulders and cracked her back, the muscles of each protesting at having been hunched over for hours. Unfolding her legs, Joanna stood to make for the loo, a hot shower was clearly in order, but before she could, Sherlock grasped her wrist without opening his eyes, and pulled her back down to the cushions of the sofa. 

Sherlock spun on his knees to face her. Eyes still closed, he slid his body between her legs, and though he loosened his grip on Joanna’s wrist, he did not let her go.  Rather, he slid his fingers beneath the cuffs of her jumper to caress the tender skin on the inside of her wrists. He lingered only a moment before his hands travelled up her arms over the soft cashmere.

“Sherlock –“ Joanna gasped as his hands glided across the bare flesh at her collarbone then curled around each side of her skull, cupping her face in his large hands.  She watched as his eyes fluttered behind closed lids as they often did when he was categorizing new data.  “Wha … what are you doing?”  Her voice was breathless as Sherlock pulled her toward him, nuzzling gently at the shell of her ear, sensing everything he wanted through touch and smell alone. His breath whispered across her cheekbone before he finally pressed his lips to hers. 

The kiss was searching and penetrating but also tender and delicate; everything that Sherlock was as well as everything Joanna was certain he could be. She coiled her fingers into the curls at the back of his head to signal her consent, and he pressed further, deepening the kiss. Sherlock’s tongue brushed the inside of her bottom lip compelling her to open to him.  He kissed her lazily, memorizing the contours of her mouth with his tongue. 

Dear God, for a man who had seemingly little interest in anything sexual, Sherlock kissed like he was born to it. Joanna groaned against his lips and began her own quest.  Neither one dominating but each insistent about the answers they sought.  Ignoring all previous evidence to the contrary, Joanna pushed aside her initial hesitance and accepted that this was where Sherlock and she had been heading since that first night when she had killed a cabbie to save a man she barely knew; a man who had ignited in her a passion for life that had nearly burnt out until the moment they met in the lab at Bart’s.

Sherlock trailed the fingers of one hand down the slope of her neck, catching for a moment in the soft length of her hair before drifting lower.  Joanna arched into his hand as he palmed the curve of her breast, his thumb brushing once then twice against the suddenly taut peak of her nipple.  Sherlock breathed in her gasp of pleasure before exhaling one of his own when she nipped and suckled at his bottom lip.   Sherlock wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her tightly to him for a moment, his tongue tangling with hers one last time before he pulled away and settled on the back of his heels before her.

Pure. Unadulterated. Fleeting.  Welcome.

Sherlock opened his eyes.  His lips twitched with a smile of unexpected satisfaction as he took in Joanna’s dishevelled and aroused state. Her hair was tousled from his questing fingers; her lips red and slightly swollen from his nips and caresses, and her eyes – when she finally opened them – were dark with desire tinged with bewilderment.  

She had never looked more beautiful.

“Christ, Sherlock … what was that?” she breathed heavily, collapsing against the cushions behind her.  She gripped his fingers where Sherlock’s hand lay on her inner thigh.

He lifted her hand, turned it over, and pressed a final kiss to her palm.

“A beginning, I should think,” Sherlock said in all seriousness before standing and walking to his bedroom. Moments later, Joanna heard the door shut behind him, and she couldn’t stop the bewildered laugh that escaped her lips.

“A beginning it is, then,” Joanna murmured before grabbing the towel and combs from the coffee table and heading for the bathroom. If she had needed a shower before, it was nothing in comparison to her situation now. 

But would it be hot or cold?  Joanna took a quick glance at the mirror above the fireplace, and smiled at the thoroughly snogged reflection that looked back at her. Her arousal surged at the memory of Sherlock’s mouth on hers, pooling low in her belly.

Hot she decided.  Hot, long, and very, _very_ slow.

 

* * *

 

 

**September 11, 2011 – Euston Square Garden, London, England**

 

“They’re lovely people.”

“They are.”

“Not what I thought they’d be like, to tell truth.”

“Not in the least.  So what _did_ you think they’d be like?”

“Dunno.  Tried not to think about it too much.  Just seemed a bit… surreal, I guess.  Those two, having something so ‘common’ as a mum and dad.”

They sat under a tree in Euston Square Garden. Greg on a bench, Jo in the wheelchair Lestrade had nicked when he sprung her, IV and all, from her hospital room.  With all of the chaos previous day, Greg had been pretty confident that Joanna needed to get out of her room and out of her head.  He saw their chance when several new arrivals on the floor occupied the hospital staff, but Greg judged that they had at most another 15 minutes before someone came looking for them – he’d left a note on her bed explaining where they were; he wasn’t _that_ big of a fool, after all _._

“They weren’t _spawned_ , Greg.”

“You certain ‘bout that?”

“They just have shockingly ordinary parents. Don’t give me that look. They didn’t spring fully formed from Zeus’ head, either.”

“Pretty sure Mycroft did.  Or _thinks_ he did,” Greg replied. 

“ _Don’t_ talk about Mycroft.”

“Still angry with him, then?  Oi!  Now who’s giving a look?”

“Feeling a bit entitled over here, ta very much.” Jo fiddled with the edge of the blanket that covered her lap.  “Not surprised, mind you.  I’ve seen that bastard try to manage and commandeer his brother’s life more times than I can count, but if he thinks he’s going to do that with Sherlock’s child, he has another think coming.”  She sighed, trying to push back the exhaustion and depression that ever lurked in the shadows of her mind.   “I don’t know if I’m angrier with Mycroft because he tried to manipulate me or because he thought I wouldn’t _notice_.  I’m not an idiot or a child. 

“No.  You’re just _having_ one – “ Greg interjected, but Joanna didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I’m nearly 40 bloody years old, for Christ’s sake! I served in sodding Helmand Province. Pulled men twice my size out of the crossfire.  Was fucking shot for my troubles, and all of that was before I started chasing after blackmailers, kidnappers, and serial killers through the streets of London as Sherlock’s dogsbody!  I can sodding well decide my own life.  I don’t need it micromanaged for me by the bloody British Government!”

Lestrade couldn’t help but chuckle. Joanna always cursed a blue streak when she or Sherlock was hurt (common), afraid (rarely), or properly worked up (often enough when Sherlock was alive, though significantly less since he died). And now she had managed to work herself up into a full temper; something her doctors had made quite clear should be avoided at all costs.

“Drink your tea, Jo.  It’s soothing.” 

Though it was a rare sunny day for mid-September, there was a bit of a chill in the air, so Greg had bought them each something hot to drink from the vendor outside the park.  He’d also bundled Jo up in Sherlock’s coat – one of fallen detective’s many that Joanna had asked for from Baker Street when she was finally lucid enough to want some things from the flat – and tucked a blanket over her lap to keep her warm.

“Are you _managing_ me, Detective Inspector?”

“Do I _need_ to?” he asked pointedly.  “Look, you know you need to keep calm.  You’re the one who’s ‘nearly 40 bloody years old, Helmand Province, and dogsbody’ so take care of it and drink yer tea.”

Joanna pulled off the plastic lid of her cup and sniffed.  “It’s _chamomile_." 

“Deduced that, did you?”

“I hate Chamomile.”

“Your life is full of trials, isn’t it?” Lestrade lamented, stretching his legs out in front of him.  He sipped his coffee.

“I need caffeine.”  Joanna looked longingly at the steaming up in his hand.

“No caffeine.  Not good for you or ‘Mini-lock’ in there.  I’ll get you green next time.”

“Fine.”

“And don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You’re channelling Sherlock. Stop it. You sound just like him when you’re in a strop.  It’s creepy.”

“It’s probably the baby.”  Joanna shrugged.  She sniffed at the tea again and took a hesitant sip.

“Okay … officially creepier.”

“ _What_ is? That I’m having Sherlock’s child?”

“Gods no, Joanna!  Why would you even think that?  I meant the idea of a ‘mini-Sherlock’ speaking from the womb. Seen things like that at the cinema. Unnerving as hell.” Greg thought for a moment, and then continued.  “Odd as it sounds, knowing that you’re having Sherlock’s kid is about the only thing that seems right anymore.” 

“Nothing’s right anymore.”  Joanna felt the sorrow well up inside of her again and took a deep breath to steady herself.

Noting her distress, Greg slid closer to the edge of the bench.  He took her cup, set it on ground next to them, and rested his hand on the arm of her wheelchair in a silent gesture of support that made no demands in return.

A panicked laugh burst its way from Joanna’s throat, and her hand flew to her mouth in an effort to force it back before she grasped Greg’s  “God, I’m a mess.”

“You’re allowed, luv,” he said.

Though her voice sounded watery, her eyes were as dry as they had been the day of Sherlock’s funeral.  In fact, Greg would wager the bulk of his pension that she’d yet to cry at all, and that worried him more than he cared to think about. Tears weren’t required by any means, but they were sure as hell cathartic. Lestrade rubbed the side of Jo’s hand with his thumb in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

“You don’t know what I was like before, not really,” Joanna said.

“Before what?”

“Before Sherlock.  After I was invalided out of the Army.  My shoulder.  My leg. The physical pain wasn’t the problem. This, however,” she poked the side of her head, her voice much calmer than before. “All the direction had been yanked from my life, but I should have been able to figure it out myself. Always had before. Ella was a waste, and I hated that I couldn’t pull myself out of that hell.”  She flushed with embarrassment at the memories, but forced herself to continue.  “Lived in an awful bedsit.  Most depressing thing you’d ever seen.  Every night before I went to bed I’d put my revolver in my mouth, and try to think of a new reason not to pull the trigger.” 

She remembered the night she had told this to Sherlock. It had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Admitting to the most amazing man she’d ever known, her closest friend, the love of her life that she would have blown her brains out if she hadn’t met him _that_ day. That one _fluke_ of a day where pure happenstance or fate or whateverthehellyouwannacallit became the only reason she was still alive.

“Jo …”

“I’d run out of reasons, Greg. It’s almost a bloody cliché, yeah? Suicidal ex-army doctor finds her salvation in the 11th hour?” 

She didn’t know why she was telling Greg all of this. But for some reason, if she didn’t say this now, if she kept it all locked up again … she closed her eyes.  “That night at the pool, Moriarty promised Sherlock that he’d burn the heart out of him. We knew he meant me. We never talked about it directly, but we always thought that Moriarty would come after _me_ to get to Sherlock.”

“Moriarty was a psychopath, Joanna. There was no predicting him.”

“And we’re all the worse for trying.” A sudden breeze blew through the park, and without thinking, Joanna popped up the collar of her coat – Sherlock’s coat – around her neck to keep warm. “It hurts so much more now.”

“You love him, Jo.  It’s _going_ to hurt more.”

Joanna’s eyes darted to Greg’s, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the look of shock on her face.  “Even if you take the baby out of the equation – which is a pretty hard thing to take out of this _particular_ equation – it was obvious from early days that you were both done as far as anyone else was concerned.  You just _fit_ , Jo.  No one could hope to compete with Sherlock, and more tried than you realise.  And as far as _he_ was concerned …” Greg didn’t need to finish.  They both knew.

Lestrade rubbed his face and was surprised at moisture he found in the corners of his own eyes; he missed Sherlock more than he ever thought possible.  Somewhere through countless cases, endless take away meals, and unending hours spent slogging through old files, Greg had grown to love the genius who had aggravated the DI as much as he had amazed him.  Greg knew that he would never see the like of Sherlock Holmes again, and he dwelled in his own private hell when he considered his own contributions to the man’s untimely death.

“Thanks, Greg.”  Joanna said, pulling him from his own guilty thoughts.

“For what?”

“You don’t cosset me.  The doctors and nurses act like I’m something fragile, as though I’ll fly apart right in front of them.  Makes me feel rather stupid … weak.”

“I‘ve always told you what I think. See no reason to stop now.” Greg flicked a fallen leaf from off his trousers.

Dwarfed by the Belstaff though she was, Joanna slid her free hand beneath the wool of the coat and rested it against the knit of her jumper and the belly that not was just starting to swell with child. She turned her face to the flickers of sunlight that shone between the leaves and branches of the tree and sighed.  “What am I going to do, Greg?”

“Is that rhetorical, or do you want my advice?”

“Advice.”

Greg considered her question. “Well, the way I see it, you have four options.  Option One: You return to Baker Street and try to manage on your own.  Mrs Hudson would run herself into the ground helping you, which wouldn’t be good for _her_ health, and I know it wouldn’t be good for yours.  I’m sorry, but we’ve plenty of evidence on how well _that_ plan’s worked before.

Joanna didn’t blush at the not-so-subtle reminder of what landed her in hospital to begin with.  Might as well own the mistake.  “No, it wouldn’t.”

“Option Two:  You return to Baker Street and hire a nurse to move in until you’re past the dangerous part of the pregnancy.”

The look she gave him told Greg all he needed to know what Joanna thought about that idea.  It was exactly as he had told Mycroft the day before.

“Option Three:  You take Violet and Siger up on their offer and move to Sussex until the baby comes.  They’re younger than Mrs H, and there’re two of them, so that’s a bit easier all ‘round.  There are the added benefits of getting to know Sherlock’s parents and letting them get to know you and their grandchild. But, it takes you from London, and I know how much you love the city.  You’ll probably have more contact with Mycroft, too.

“Doesn’t moving to Sussex just play into Mycroft’s plans?”

“No matter what he thinks, this isn’t about Mycroft Holmes. It’s about you and the baby.  I’ll tell you this much, though.  You didn’t see Mycroft after his parents took him into the hall when things went pear-shaped yesterday.  I’d popped out to get you a cuppa, yeah?  Mummy was all over him.  Takes no prisoners, that woman.  Siger didn’t say much – I don’t think he _ever_ says much – but whatever he _did_ say left its impression.  I’ve _never_ seen Mycroft look contrite.   Didn’t think he had the facial muscles for it, actually. As hacked off as you were with the bastard, I think it’s nothing compared to how Violet and Siger felt when they realized he had used them to force your hand.”

“You trust them?”

Greg weighed Joanna’s question. “I do.  I can judge people pretty well, and some things you just can’t fake, not even if you _are_ a Holmes. They seemed pretty hurt by what Mycroft tried to do.” 

“And option four?”

“Well, I hear Majorca’s a nice place to live.”

“And ruin my English Rose complexion?” Joanna chuckled. 

“Running’s not exactly your style, anyway. You’re more the ‘take the idiot by the tie and waistcoat’ kinda girl.”

“Ta very much for that.”

Greg mimicked doffing his cap. “So?  Thoughts?”

“Dozens of them,” she said, sounding again too much like Sherlock.  As far as options went, none of them overly appealed to her, but Joanna was thankful that at least there _were_ options. Though she would wish it differently, the simple fact of the matter was that between her emergency surgery and an unexpected pregnancy complicated by morning sickness from hell, she had weeks of recovery ahead of her.  As it stood, she hadn’t even been outside for 30 minutes and already felt her energy flagging.  If she were her own patient, Joanna would advise getting as much help as she could stand.

She reached into the inside pocket of the Belstaff and pulled out the folded piece of paper she had shoved in there when Greg was pushing her wheelchair through the hallways of UCH like he was grand prix driver chasing after his prize.  “But I think _this_ really narrows it all down to just one,” she said, waving the paper in the air like a clue at a crime scene before passing it to Lestrade.

“What it is?” Greg asked, unfolding the sheet.

“Ultrasound,” Joanna said, turning her attention to a nearby tree where a couple of squirrels were squabbling over a nut.

Greg had seen ultrasound photos a few times in his career – never in his personal life, sadly – and he knew enough to know he had no bloody clue what he was looking at.

“The heart’s been circled,” Joanna clarified. The squirrel on the left executed a descent approximation of a roundhouse kick, but the one on the right ducked lower on the tree trunk just in time to avoid it.

Lestrade looked at the photo again and then back at Joanna, eyebrows climbing into his hairline.  “There are _two_ of them.”

“Yep.”

Holy Christ!  “You think his Highness knows about it?”

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say Mycroft knew before _I_ did,” Joanna replied, sarcastically. 

“So what are you going to do?” Greg refolded the paper and passed it back to Joanna.

She rubbed her face with her hands before slapping them decisively on the armrests of the chair.  “Well, I’m certainly not moving to Majorca. Push me over to that CCTV camera behind the coffee vendor, would you?”

Greg did so, tossing their cups in a bin as they passed.  “What are you doing?” he asked when they reached the pavement.

“I need to send a message,” Joanna said, locking the wheels of the chair.  Greg scrambled to assist her when it became clear that she meant to stand. He kicked the lap blanket out of the way as it fell, and gripped her arm gently before wrapping a supportive arm around her waist.  She wasn’t as weak as all that but appreciated the help nonetheless.

“Your mobile’s too much trouble then, huh?”

“A girl’s gotta have a bit of fun,” Jo replied with that grin that always sent chills down Greg’s spine.  He remembered what Sherlock had once told him. People may think Sherlock was a psychopath, but _Joanna_ was the dangerous one.

The CCTV camera that had been centred on the patrons queued up for their afternoon cuppa spun slowly to face them. Joanna gave it a quick wave, and then began signing her message.  Greg knew that Joanna was fluent in British Sign Language.  She had studied it in Uni to be able to communicate with deaf patients more easily, and though the Yard had made use of her expertise on more than one occasion, Greg had only a very, _very_ basic idea of what she was saying. 

Like all good State-educated schoolboys, he knew how to swear in a variety of languages, including BSL, but other than the alphabet and a few other simple words, that was pretty much the limit of the DI’s vocabulary.  He did, however, know all about tone, and from the way she was signing, Joanna’s was dripping with sarcasm. 

Initially, he was able to pick out Mycroft’s name, a rather prolific string of curse words, the sign for ‘family’ popped up a couple of times, and lastly … oh.  Oh! Yeah, he understood those two fingers just fine. 

When she was done, Greg helped Joanna settle into the wheelchair and tucked the blanket back around her legs. “Please tell me you didn’t just throw down with the most powerful man in England.” 

“We should get back.  They’ll need to change out my fluids, and I’m now expecting visitors in,” she checked the clock on her mobile, “about 30 minutes, give or take.”

“What did you say to him?” Greg asked, nodding to the series of CCTV camera that followed them as he pushed the chair back down Euston toward UCH.

“Let’s just say that I’ve started negotiations about my upcoming travel plans.”  Joanna snuggled down inside the greatcoat and for the first time in weeks, genuinely smiled.

“Travel plans?

“Yep,” Jo popped the ‘p’ in tribute to the dead as well as for emphasis.  “I’m moving to Sussex.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you found this chapter worth the wait. 
> 
> As always kudos, and especially comments, feed this writer's soul and typically makes me write a bit more quickly (especially now that the school year is over).
> 
> It is my intent to have another chapter posted within two weeks, if not sooner.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.
> 
> Ta!

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to send love to your writers. See that comment box below? You know you want to use it. 
> 
> Love ya!


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